


Fire & Fury

by HaephestusCrex



Category: ASoIF, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:30:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaephestusCrex/pseuds/HaephestusCrex
Summary: "The Redwater Mountain Snake" REWRITE! Original Female Character/Many/Cleganes etc. Drastically AU. Joffrey's dead, a coup is stirring in Dorne, Myrcella lives, and House Brimsblood of Dorne is butting heads. There's grabs for power, stabs in the back, and mostly the focus of one woman's horrible decisions and downward spiral. There's bad decisions. Then there's fucking Gregor Clegane. There's many other tales going on while others are busy vying for the Iron Throne. Here is one of them. [OFC/Gregor, OFC/Sandor later, OFC/many (fem/male etc etc. Give it a chance?)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

 

 

The Dothraki are seen as a savage people, and that assessment is not wrong, but it did not erase from the fact that the sacred city of Vaes Dothrak possessed its own beauty. It was one that Elisheva did not think they would be capable of. She hailed from a mercenary brood, sharing close proximity with the Salt Shore and the Hellholt. The few (and oh, were they few) Dothraki to ever cross the Narrow Sea often found themselves in the Sunspear, finding it only marginally easier to adjust to Dorne than upper Westeros. That said, Elisheva could only really say she’d met one Dothraki man before she’d left Dorne. Every other interaction had been singular ones – the strange, and odd long-haired warriors who traded sacks of useless jewels for supplies needed for the tribes.  They had been neither bad nor good, so perhaps she lacked an accurate frame of reference for how a khalasar should behave and operate as a whole.

 

“Daishi?” Elisheva approached a strange man whose stall seemed higher than most, a raised canopy in the Eastern markets. The eyes of traders looked over to her occasionally, for a woman, she had inordinately tall limbs, like most of House Brimsblood. There were twinkling crystals that fell from the roofs of tents and dangled on lace strings, the wisps of burning perfumes, selling strange and wonderful things from Yi Ti and Asshai, places not yet braved by her. She resisted the urge to stop at every stall and try to get everything for somebody that she knew, forcing herself to a portly gentleman.

 

“Yer sekke zhaenae! Lady Elisheva of the Scarwood, I presume?” he was a man that had patchy grey facial hair against dark skin, wrinkles around his lips from smiling so much, and a stomach swollen from what was surely a rich life. His hair seemed long and dogged with sweat, though his eyes were unfortunately small and almost rat-like. He opened his arms wide in an over-familiar gesture and Elisheva worries for a moment that he might try to embrace her, and whilst Dornish warmth wasn’t wholly lost on her, the rings of sweat beneath his armpits made her unwilling.

 

She was surprised when Dothraki came out of his mouth, spoken like he was born to it. He gestured openly to his wares, trying to make himself as welcoming as possible, before drawing his arms around his portly stomach.

 

Elisheva’s Dothraki was not good, it was learned from what few interactions she’d had and a conscious effort to find some recorded volumes on it before she reached Essos once more. While familiar with Low Valyrian, it pained her that such a large language was lost to her, and that she could not approach the horsemen with rippling muscles and flowing braids before now. She gathered that he had called her a great beauty, and the Dornish woman made great pains to respond in kind.

 

“Yer chommo anna,” responding in a clunky manner, she had hoped to say that he honoured her.

 

“Your Dothraki is good,” said Daishi, warmly “-you may find it more agreeable than your time in Yunkai. I’ve already agreed on a good sum for your service. You will not be displeased,”

 

The first thing that he notices besides her beauty was her manner of dress. She had tall, strong legs like willows and she towered over Daishi at a tremendous height of 6”1. Her body was squeezed into a Qartheen dress, and had he not known she was Dornish, he might have thought that her comfortableness came naturally to her. It was perhaps not as grand as what he’d seen, it was simple, shimmering in grey with bits of golden thread sewn around the sleeve. The belt was of cheap brass with deep carving of the sun etched at its centre.

 

Daishi marvelled at her body. She was tall and slender in places but also hard and muscled, like a walking contradiction, such as seeing an oil fire surrounded by sea. The Qartheen dresses came down one shoulder and covered from the belt down, exposing a breast – and a rather perfect one too, yet her shoulders lacked the feminine slope and were squared, her arms heavy with muscle, like much of her.

 

“And you’ll send it to Rigel? How long will it take to get to Braavos?” she took a clipped tone, if only because of how urgent it was. Her brother, Rigel Brimsblood, he was in the habit of making poor decisions and often being too stubborn to send a raven home. Daishi was an old friend of Rigel’s allegedly, and between the two of them, they found a way to best tackle the situation. Unfortunately, the Second Sons and the popularity of more known mercenary companies had made it harder for Elisheva to find work without Daishi’s help, as her family were far more renown in Dorne, and only certain Free Cities that were closer to the Sunspear docks to travel from.

 

“He won’t stay a moment longer with Silas than he has to, I assure you,” – it was at this moment that a lumbering man came over, who was wide as he was tall, only a few inches shorter than the Dorne. He had a skin darker than Elisheva’s natural tan, with paint smeared down his chin and eyes that were such a dark shade of brown that they were like staring into earthly dirt.

 

His body was in battered leathers that were frayed with congealed blood and small pieces of horse hair woven with love instead of thick furs to pad it out. Elisheva had – and owned – armour back home in Scarwood Keep, her family’s crested brigandine light armour and a heavy soot coloured Coat of Plates and she could safely say that this was no armour. He had black hair much like her own but it was immaculately straight, and braided into a heavy pony tail that barely reached below his shoulders.

 

She opened her mouth to speak and was cut off as the man spoke over her, looking over her shoulder at Daishi. He spoke so quickly and harshly in Dothraki that she struggled to understand, except for small words such as “Rice,” “Gold,” and “breasted woman,” perhaps referring to her dress.

 

Elisheva felt the hand of the Dothraki man on her shoulder before she realized that she was being forcefully pulled to his side. She raised her hand and ham-handedly waved goodbye to Daishi, flashing him a relieved smile. It would take a year’s work in order to clear Rigel’s debt, but the sooner he could go home the better, it had been two years since the boy had been able to pull himself from the beauty of Braavos to return home.

 

All it took was the kindness of one person to ruin everything.

 

The same eyes of the Yi Ti traders and strange wandering women of Asshai seemed to follow her as she was dragged from the Eastern market, and suddenly any hope of being able to stop and examine the wares was extinguished in one look at the dour expression on the horseman’s face.

 

Elisheva wondered briefly, what kind of weapon the Dothraki would equip her with, as she had been forced to strip all of them before being allowed into the Sacred City. Even her hip knife had been too large to sheathe in a boot and her Qartheen dress had allowed for little room to hide much.

 

“You speak Common?” Elisheva tried, somehow, calling him “Sir” didn’t feel like it’d fit.

 

The man’s fingers dug into her strong shoulder and pulled her with a harder force, her dress now becoming frayed with sandy dirt at the edges. It wasn’t long before the Horse Gate came into view, no true gate, but a great, wide entrance that was lorded over by statues of two tremendous horses with noses raised like they might touch the skies themselves.

 

When he didn’t answer, Elisheva had the tremendous urge to childishly pull at his ponytail until he did, it took all of her will and common sense not to, but it didn’t mean she didn’t imagine it, scowling fiercely as he dragged her.

 

“I’m going to assume that’s a no,” she grumbled.

 

She glared into his back and when the man turned around, he found the woman staring at him rather insolently, lips pinched into something of a pout.

 

“Up,” – ‘ _ah ha, so he does speak Common!’_ – she thought, as he grunted orders at her. He was relieved that she could at least mount a horse correctly, before stationing himself behind her, and pulling the reins at either side.

 

The man cursed her height under his breathe, before pushing at Elisheva’s back, forcing her to bend forward on the horse and almost fall off, gripping around it’s mane and wide-neck desperately. Every time she tried to raise herself, the Dothraki would push her back down, apparently inconvenienced by having to see over her hair.

 

“Fucker,”

 

He slapped her lightly at the back of the head, making her wince. Gripping the horse like this was causing a feeling reminiscent of sea-sickness, having to keel over too close and hold its neck was just simply uncomfortable, but every rise and fall of the hoofs felt like she was stuttering over bump after bump in the ground. Like a boat forced to bob up and down on unsteady waves.

 

It felt like they were riding for days in silence when it was simply hours, even when the harsh sun started to disappear, they still kept riding, and more than once, Elisheva wanted to be ill.

 

Eventually they came to a stop, having long since crossed into the Dothraki Sea before the tired and irritable Dorne had even noticed. The Dothraki Sea felt like a great expanse of nothingness, but certainly more habitable than the Red Waste at least. Elisheva dismounted and looked around – seeing and smelling smoke rising and filling the night air. There were a series of small fires scattered out as far as she could see before more nothingness. There were inelegant tents of rough furs and starchy material that were pitched in messy clusters.

 

It looked more like a refugee’s hovel than a strong and mighty khalasar.

 

“You come,” said the man, pulling her again as he’d been doing all through the Sacred City.

 

A large tent came into view, bigger than the others. Elisheva took a moment to look around wildly as the man kept prodding her harshly. To her left – she saw cheerful, musclebound men, drinking a strange mixture of milky alcohol. To her right, a fist being swung at a larger, more imposing man, yet bringing him down to his knees from the force of the blow. A woman was taken from the sidelines, her face somehow ashen yet excited at the same time as she’s pushed. The man who punched is storming up behind her in seconds, his arm under her chin, and the other is pulling at the small straps of leather around her chest and yanking it down in one, to the sound of cheers.

 

She cringed and glanced down at her own Qartheen dress, and the revealing state of her body as it only fell to cover her right side and the hips down. There were Dothraki staring at her too, staring at her skin and her breast, and her tremendous scarring. Elisheva was suddenly self-conscious about her outfit for the first time in a long time.

 

The Dorne then stole another look at the woman to the right, and is unable to read the expression on her face. Her eyes were rolling back into her skull either from great pain or great pleasure, the man shamelessly mounts her the way a dog mounts a bitch.

 

It took everything she had not to try to shake out of her own Dothraki’s grip and ask about the barbarity she was witnessing. She expected it of course, she wasn’t a fool, but it was another to see it. The man even moved like a dog, humping and howling, Elisheva’s suddenly pushed with force into the large tent, cutting off her vision, but not before she sees a trail of blood down the woman’s leg.

 

Her heart felt like it wanted to fall out of her arse, and momentarily, The Tongue-Stealer wonders if she’s made a terrible mistake. She couldn’t speak, nor could she breathe – and it had been a long, long time since she’d been in touch with the sensation of fear. It was wholly unwelcome.

 

The men spoke like she wasn’t there, and she felt even more critical eyes than she had outside. Inside, sat a man on a plush, lilac cushion, legs folded and running a strange squared rock across the blade of a sheet-thin but incredibly sharp dagger.

The man himself sported longer hair, the braid trailing down his back and paint greasily smeared with a lazy hand print dragged across the left of his face. His lips had a natural downturn, giving him an expression of permanent disappointment.

The two Dothraki men then shared a laugh, her only understanding a few words in indecipherable sentences. She did, however, understand the crude gesture the sitting man had done, both hands over his chest and making crude gestures around his pectorals, mimicking breasts. Her face heated up in splotchy red embarrassment, Elisheva understood she was the subject of a joke, but lacking the words to rebut it, was left flush and awkward.

 

“Do you speak Common? What – “Elisheva frowned, and then strung together her best attempt at Dothraki “ _-What weapon I get?”_

The seated man looked surprised, firstly that she spoke Dothraki even slightly, and secondly – that she thought she was getting a weapon.

 

“Yer Dothraki,” began the man, “-is…how you say…”

 

He struggled with Common similarly to how Elisheva struggled with Dothraki.

 

“Shit.”

 

The Dorne would have said the same about his Common, but didn’t want to sound like a petulant child, and settled for giving the man her best sneer.

 

“You with Jargo,” said the man, waving her off with a kingly shooing motion. The man gave a sidelong look to the one who had escorted her from Vaes Dothrak.

 

“Who?”

 

“Out!” he snapped.

 

The woman learned that her silent escort was Jargo, and that the man inside of the big tent had been none other than the Khal himself, Khal Charro. Still, nobody had answered her question, and the friendliest face she’d seen had been a dirty-cheeked child, who pointed at the revealed back and side of her skin, where purposeful scar lines drew into a detailed pattern, and said it was “Nice.”

 

Children’s Dothraki was at least, slightly easier to follow, slower, and with less complicated words, but she still couldn’t hold a conversation with one. Jargo had left her on a dirty blanket, watching children running around the fire. Old women stared at her, whispering amongst themselves.

 

“It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference, I can’t fucking understand you anyway,” Elisheva snapped, as hours of their strange, harsh, guttural language was starting to wear on her, driving her to snap in Common if only just to hear it in her own ears.

 

The old women stopped only for a second, before continuing on, as though she hadn’t said a word. The Dorne sighed, and felt a small child tracing the lines on her shoulder and down her back muscle. They were gently picking at her skin, even though it had been decades since the lines had been scabbed, obtrusive and able to be picked. There was some fascination when they’d only scratched her, and the lines remained aggressively dark but entirely smooth against the rest of her tan skin, like it had been ironed into her.

 

Jargo himself was drinking that strange milk-alcohol, being celebrated by his cohorts, for Gods only know what reason. Elisheva was sick of barely understanding what was going on. It almost made her want audience with Khal Charro. At least he spoke a little bit of Common! Their Valyrian was frankly no better.

 

Elisheva felt herself being dragged up from behind, but it wasn’t Jargo, because he was walking towards her from the front.

 

The mercenary stood very still, flinching when she felt a hand on her naked breast from whomever gripped her from behind. It had to be someone short, because she felt their face in her back. There was some more laughing, and Jargo holding her by the chin with a crooked grin before letting go, not seeming to care for the fact she was being groped and essentially thrown around to stare at as he drank.

When the other hand was at her covered side, and both hands were groping entirely too hard, a fog of adrenaline came over her. Both of her own hands reached back for the man’s wrists, Jargo had enough reflex to stagger backwards as Elisheva bent forward and with tremendous strength and dexterity, pulled up the short man in one sweeping gesture until he was thrown over her back, over her head and onto the sandy ground that did very little to cushion what could have easily been a spine-damaging blow on any other surface.

 

There was a brief silence save for the sounds of crackling campfires, before the Dothraki pierced it with loud cheering and jeers directed at the short, older man on the floor. Elisheva rose up and brushed herself off, feeling an ache in both of her arms from the action. Jargo wasn’t laughing, or cheering, but he had a glint in his eye that seemed strangely familiar to her, because it wasn’t too dissimilar from looks she’d given equally worse men in the past.

 

“You come,” said Jargo flatly, before bursting into a wide grin and slapping the palm of his hand against the woman’s ass, not caring that he’d observed the consequence of unwanted action. It fuelled him, in fact, it made Jargo that much worse. Somehow, this only seemed to encourage him, and take him away from his drinking.

 

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Elisheva when it was told to her that Jargo was a “Bloodrider,” – a dothrakhqoyi. They rode with the Khal, and were the best of his warriors with braids to prove it. They were motivated by their pleasures and struggled with the lines between pleasure and adrenaline from violence. Jargo was one such man.

 

All it took was the kindness of one person to ruin everything, and for Elisheva to be stuck inside of a tent in the far east of Essos, staring blankly at a tanned skin-tent. A horrible sense of foreboding washed over her, especially as the gravity of the language barrier struck her, and that even if there was none, that her freedom likely mattered just as little as what she had to say.

 

Elisheva had reached out to grab a weapon - a very jagged sort of knife, that looked like it was likely made of bone instead of metal, only to have her hand slapped by the man. He snarled something angrily.

 

“Mezhah,” his tone, guttural and harsh when he addressed her. He said some other things Elisheva didn’t catch, the language was so strange to her, that it was hard for her to tell when words were separate from each other, much less what they meant. If only she had understood  _athhilezar._

 

Her apparent ignorance and lack of reaction seemed to irritate the man, who made a crude gesture to her body, which again, the Dorne didn’t quite understand. Bracers landed with a heavy clank and Elisheva was confronted by the fact that the Dothraki wore very little in terms of armour, even the Bloodriders. She had assumed he was taking off armour to sleep, like everyone else did.

 

The Dorne was then then quite surprised when the well-tanned man loosened the pelt armour around his waist and stepped out of it, putting her at the uncomfortable level of being lorded over as she sat on the floor of the tent, about eye level with an erection.

 

Had Elisheva been anyone else, she might have balked at the suddenness, but in truth, she was just in a bit of shock, because she didn’t really expect this to be happening. Not when she walked alongside them easily without needing to be threatened, trying to figure out how she’d understand any order given to her if they wanted her in their infantry, and wondering what they’d arm her with.

 

Her mouth fell open to say something, but she cut herself off with her own yelp, feeling him push into her body, with all of his stacked body, making her back collide with the floor.

 

 _“Eckh-!_ ” was about all Elisheva got out of her throat, her grey eyes forced to look up at the low ceiling of the tent. The sound of slight tearing registered in her ears before she felt the material of her dress be pulled down her arm, exposing her bare breasts instead of just the one to the muggy air of the dry desert.

 

 _‘Oh - Gods, this is - this is happening’_  - her mind felt unusually slow, and hazy, like she had drunk half a barrel of wine and the heaviness of it all was weighing down each thought, making ration and reason so much slower, even though every part of her wanted desperately to kick itself in overdrive and summon up the power of Gods to throw this gigantic man off of her body.

 

_Grunt. Heave. Mount._

 

Before she had hope of stringing a single thought together to one coherent motion - to make her stupid body do something, a noise of pain burbled in her throat. Maybe it was the position she was in, and the shock, and the fact she couldn’t get enough air in or some latent sense of pride finally kicking in, but the scream didn’t leave her mouth. Looking back, she hoped it was because she didn’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction.

 

_Groan._

 

The pain was - insurmountable in the initial moment, not only was there this wholly unwelcome, huge, intrusion, but her body felt like a vice, like every part of it was a rusted, undersized sheathe that refused to release the metal that had been drilled and forced to accommodate it. In that moment, Elisheva saw the colours distort in her vision, because reactionary tears were swirling around in her eyes and close to falling. She had to blink them out, feeling one escape down the side of her temple and onto the wolf pelt underneath her body.

 

She caught a clear look of Jargo’s face - rolling her grey eyes up to see him, as his size was so tall that he far loomed over her head, despite her own tallness. She caught sight of his sweat glistening chin, hearing him grunt like a dog as he fucked her. His meaty hands throttling her biceps over her head and keeping her arms down. Elisheva’s whole body gave into tremors and trembles, like she was vibrating under him almost. At first she thought it was terror, terror that this was truly happening, and that she could do nothing to stop it, but as her body started rushing to make it all so less painful, making it easier - smoother, slicker and easier to take the sheer size of the Dothraki, her mind was able to gain some clarity from the pain. Her slow thoughts suddenly snapping together and extremely coherent.

 

_“Mezhah…”_

 

It was anger, not terror. It was anger. Anger so strong that it was shaking her body from head to toe and her lips which had pursed in pain were split open and she was baring her teeth, grinding them and looking up at Jargo’s shoulders, neck and chin from her position. If Jargo had taken pause for even moment, he might have seen what was coming. Instead, he was leaning down now, because he was close - and it was enough.

 

_‘Oh, Gods. Mother warned me. She told me.This is what happens. It hurts. Men take. She told me - ‘_

 

Elisheva had only a second to see his sweat-glistened neck and knew she had exactly one shot to do it in, but was so blinded by a sense of visceral, primal anger that she didn’t think she could explain with all the time and wise poets in the world, she had gone red behind the eyes and sunk her teeth into the soft, dark skin. She clamped down like an animal, feeling the grip on her arms slip as the Bloodrider let out a gargle of pain. In fast motion, her own hands landed on the man’s immense shoulders and every part of her nail was digging into his muscle to keep him in place as he tried desperately hard to get up off of the Dorne.

 

Elisheva felt the skin breaking under her teeth - the gargle got louder, before it elapsed into a full, masculine scream. Rivers of red started to haemorrhage from his neck and fall into her mouth, against her lips and her chin. She tasted copper under her tongue and between her teeth, feeling the man seize with pain.

 

_‘Good’._

 

She felt him struggling above her, and loosened her jaw, like she might release his neck for a slim second, but merely clamped down harder, digging her mouth into his neck as far as it could go, before the top row of her teeth met with the bottom and she felt tendons, veins, blood and flesh in her mouth. With all the strength she could muster from her trembling body, she threw the man off of her, and saw his neck tilt his head violently to his right side, the left - completely carved out and exposing Jargo’s inner neck for all to see - or what was left of it, anyway.

 

The tightness in her gullet stopped her swallowing what was in her mouth, in the moment she threw him off, she felt him leave her body, and the red fog lift from her eyes.

 

She looked down at herself, her dress had been rolled up, and undercottons destroyed. She rolled it down almost mechanically - because it just seemed the thing to do, with just enough foresight to pick up the bone knife, and shakily head out of the tent on bow legs. The dress had not been pulled up to her single shoulder, laying both breasts out bare for all to see. But she didn’t care, in a haze of adrenaline, anger and yes, a bit of fear, Elisheva found herself confronted with one of Khal Charro’s men - she didn’t recognise him, but he was staring at her - before he decided to look in the tent, and call for the others.

 

She still had no idea what she said, but Khal Charro came upon her standing in her dress hanging limp at her hips, with blood pouring down her lips, chin, and slowly onto her collarbone and bare breasts. Under them, clutching Jargo’s bone knife with such tightness that her tanned knuckles changed a colour.

 

Khal Charro approached her, the same height as her at 6”1, with a braid down to his upper back and face smeared with hand-shaped war paint that smeared across the left side. Elisheva couldn’t find any more fear in herself any more, only some disgust - finally settling in as she lurched over the man’s feet, and a bloody lump threw itself out of her body, and landed in the sand beside his toes. Flesh, blood, all of it, in one congealed mess, briefly revealing bits stuck to her teeth. She thought her knees might fail her, and her legs would bow in and make her collapse if someone didn’t do something for her. Anything. The sea of Dothraki faces seemed unreadable in this crucial moment.

 

 _“I’m not a slave,”_  she said, and even though she was sure they couldn’t understand her, she kept the bone knife close, and kept warbling out in throaty, accented Common until it stuck in.  _“I’m not a Slave. I’m not a Slave. I’m not a Slave.”_ like it was some kind of a defensive mantra to stop this ever happening again, but if it did. She would simply do this again. And again. And again.

 

“ _I’m not a slave, ‘m notta slave.”_

 

It was probably definitely shock, and though the remaining bloodrider could not understand her, he felt a wave of unease as she mumbled.

 

She came as a mercenary, and she would not settle for being anything less. Khal Charro grabbed her by the chin sharply - saying more things she didn’t understand to the men around him, until finally, the bastard had the nerve to reply to her. Directly.

 

“Okay. Not-Slave.” the right side of his lip curling into a small smile.


	2. To Rain on Astapor

**To Rain on Astapor**

South of Vaes Dothrak was a small, peaceful settlement of farmers and sheepherders. It was a place where not much happened save for worship at the temple and animal rearing. It was simple and thankless but reaped physical reward. Lhazar’s lack of fortification often left it excellent for plunder from Dothraki tribes, the town had seen much hardship and were not strangers to the brutality that surrounded them, but lacking a garrison or any kind of defence, all they could do was lock their doors, hide and leave out crops in bags and hope that they wouldn’t be found.

 

While they weren’t rich with resource, they had food and people that could be taken as slaves, or traded at Slaver’s Bay for finished goods. There were rickety homes that stood dwarfed by the temple of the Great Shepherd, and the land seemed to ache with the previous pillages that were still in recent memory.  Aggan, the other Dothraki bloodrider remembered wasting through the village at the front of Khal Drogo’s khalasar. He did not expect to return so soon, but alongside Khal Charro, there was no talk of caving to some milk-skinned Westerosi bitch just because their culture offended her delicate sensibilities. Khal Charro’s khalasar though small, was strong, and made of the most resilient of Khal Drogo’s defectors that refused to serve under the Unburned Witch.

 

Aggan looked over to the Elisheva, and saw the lack of expression as women were dragged out by their hair, kicking and screaming.

 

“You’ve killed men for less, are you unbothered?” Aggan didn’t try to speak Common, his Dothraki was slowed, but thick. It was easier to understand his words. She wondered if he did it on purpose.

 

“It’s wars way,” she struggled, but her pronunciation improved within days of riding with them and forceful immersion, though she still lacked the words to string much together or understand them so clearly. “Women give, men take, and the weak are crushed.”

 

Whether or not she was happy with this, Aggan noticed she did not bother to say. Already he liked her more than the silver woman.

 

Elisheva grimaced a bit at the sight of the old women being tossed to one side and killed simply for being too old to be considered attractive and too old for slave labour. They had survived the first raids with Drogo, merely to die in a second with Charro.

 

Aggan rode forward on his horse, leaving the Dorne to clop slowly behind, staring out into the raid. It didn’t seem too terribly honourable to chop down men armed with little more than bits of wood and pitchforks.

 

The old would be killed, the women would be raped, the able would be taken as slaves and Gods help children or anyone that didn’t fall into the category of useful. No part of her was the least bit happy with the rapes as practice, and Aggan was right, she had killed for less in the past. She had made this known, with what clumsy manner she had, trying to explain the vitriolic strength and anger behind her actions to Jargo – why she simply did not accept what was fate. There was writhing, and fighting, struggle under the pain of having one’s body broken into, but rarer was it to be actively fought, or spat upon. It happened, but so rarely, because to be mounted by a Dothraki often left the unwilling paralysed with fear.

 

“Let go, _let go!”_ a woman was screaming in Low Valyrian, she was maybe fifteen from the looks of her, barely flowered but almost pretty, if not for the heavy amount of fat in her cheeks that made her seem more like a child than a woman, or perhaps a baby animal.

 

Finally, something she could understand. Elisheva dismounted the horse. The white bone knife was taken from her hip. The flat of it caught the side of the Dothraki’s wrist, causing him to let go of the woman’s hair. On instinct, his other arm had grabbed her with ease, stopping her from running to her home. She had screamed herself hoarse, muddy brown hair hiding most of her face as she wriggled and pushed against the man’s grip.

 

Elisheva raised herself up as highly as she could, like a bear on its hide legs. The warrior wouldn’t have thought it out of place if the woman roared at him. It was rare enough for women to be bloodriders, as rarely did they reach the heights and strengths of the average man, but it was even rarer for a non-Dothraki to become one from the outside.

 

He called her _ifak,_ for challenging him during a raid – _one who walks, a foreigner._ An insult, she responded by swiping the blade quickly – so quick he thought she had missed until a long cut opened down his lower arm, none too deep, but harder than a scratch, enough to draw blood. He released the woman with a hiss of pain and Elisheva grabbed her, pulling her into her frame.

 

“You claim her?” he snapped in annoyance, she understood the word claim, and nodded sharply, bearing down on him with all of the intensity she could muster.

 

“Let me go,” said the woman miserably.

 

“Stay with me until the raid is over or you will die, or be raped, then die, or die and be raped,” Elisheva fired back, hissing in Low Valyrian.

 

A small whimper left her throat and suddenly Elisheva felt her digging her fingers into the leather bracers she now wore, sporting the miserable excuse for clothes they sported. There would be many of course, that simply died. She could not and would not claim them all. She was barely able to take Jargo’s place, having been taken out of Qarthi dress, given leathers and been tested on Khal Charro’s whims to see if she could truly take place next to Aggan, and ride within his khalasar as a warrior.

 

A bloodrider could make quite a few claims, perhaps with not as much impact as a khaleesi, but as excellent warriors, few Dothraki would challenge the actions, even if a claim was taken from them, unless they felt they could best the other for it. Respect was earned in blood. She had taken but two from the raid.

 

The woman started breathing quickly, shuddering against Elisheva’s arm. She wrinkled her nose in disgust when she stared at the tattered tunic, wet down her legs and around her feet. Elisheva could not blame her, or express any true anger. Of course, the poor thing had pissed herself in fear. The other, whom she had taken from a small goat farm, shook like a leaf in the wind, and wasn’t able to raise her head up from her shoes.

 

The other was equally as short as the first, but with choppier hair and a wider nose, unable to stop crying – however silent it was. In truth she looked like a little boy, but with wider hips and smaller feet.

 

“On the horse,” Elisheva said, if only because their homes were a ruin, and at least one of them had no more remaining family “-or stay and be taken another time, by another hoard, by any number of men,”

 

She did not force them, but her words had caused them to drag their feet to the stallion. What else was there? Lhazar was a ruin as far as the eyes could see. Animals had been taken for meat, not all, but many, the offered crops were taken, but doors were beaten down regardless. Few lived, assumedly to restart the town and eventually be pillaged once more. Many hid in the temple, but Aggan had seen to that personally. Many entered, but none had escaped.

 

A severed head had touched her ankle, she did not bristle, but felt a burble of sickness from the frozen horror it’s expression bore.

 

Elisheva mounted the horse, thankful for how short and stout the Lhazar were, and rode silently, feeling the damp cheeks of one pushed against the bare muscle of her back, which was covered only by two crossed leather straps of the torso covering for her breasts.

 

It hadn’t been that long since Elisheva had been one of these girls, cursing Daishi every day in her sleep, and wondering if for all her trouble, whether Rigel was even given safe passage back to Dorne or not.

 

“Lady?” one had a mousy voice, her Valyrian cracked under the strain of talking quietly after she had spent so long screaming.

 

“What are you going to do to us?” Already, the two were joining together, stuck together by tragedy and all-encapsulating fear.

 

“Nothing,” Elisheva said, a little snappishly so – without meaning to. She turned to Khal Charro and rode toward him with a sudden speed until she was beside him.

 

“Do you have enough skilled ones in your khalasar that you can afford to shove a sword down all of their throats?” she asked in Common, substituting a few words she could with Dothrak.

 

Khal Charro looked at her, no longer taken aback by her disrespectful harshness, but her sudden fierceness when she had been mostly nonplussed through the raid.

 

“What? What do you ask this for?”

 

“We need weapons. Sharp. We buy them, then when they go dull? If they break? Your khalasar has no healer I see. No nothing. Ask of skill. If you keep raping them, would they ever help you if you ruin them all?”

 

“The silver bitch took them, the unburnt witch,” snapped Khal Charro. It hadn’t been the first time since Elisheva had heard them talk poorly of this mysterious khaleesi, the wife of Khal Drogo.

 

Elisheva didn’t put much stock in stories, and found it hard to believe a woman rose unburnt out of fire, it defied logic, but the Dothraki didn’t seem the most learned folk. Still, she could not help but snort derisively at him.

 

“They follow her and her dragons, my khalasar is made of the best, the witch resistant. The simple follow her. She may have the healer but we have the strong,” Khal Charro insisted.

 

“Dragons,” Elisheva muttered. That had been the hardest thing to swallow, dragons might as well be children’s tales. Surely the Dothraki were too old to believe in such things, but they all insisted on it, enough that it couldn’t be some mass hallucination, but it defied everything she knew. “Right, they follow her because of dragons and fire tricks, and I have the biggest cock in the Dothraki Sea,”

 

“We know what we saw ifak,”

 

Regardless of his insults, he listened to her words, however poorly spoken they were. He had Elisheva ask of their trades in Valyrian. One was a tailor and dress maker, they made nothing extravagant, but kept the village in clothes and blankets. There was a boy who was learning carpentry from his father, before he had suffered a blade to the back of the head.

 

Elisheva’s words did not save many, but they saved more than if she had said nothing, and this was all that she could do.

 

* * *

 

 

The two girls stood in Elisheva’s tent. She looked at them in pity when the tent flap came down and gave them privacy. Both had eyes ringed with bruises from how heavily they had cried. They were so bloodshot that they almost hurt to look at.

 

The one with the brown hair and rounded cheeks began to take her clothes off, and the other started to mimic her, fiddling with the worn bits of her dress.

 

“What’re you doing?”

 

She looked at them, confused. The brown-haired one began to hiccup softly, a trail of clear snot from her right nostril and her last tear from her right eye – a miserable sight.

 

“No no no no no,” Elisheva rushed out in Valyrian, holding the dress back up over her breasts. She was cute, yes, but Gods – they thought she was going to fuck them whether they wanted it or not. They were scared of her, even though she had claimed them to keep them from suffering at someone else’s hands.

 

“No you don’t have to do that,” she said quickly.

 

Relief washed over them, and then she saw that the boyish one’s legs were shaking. She glanced back at her closed tent flap, before putting her large arms around both of them, and pulling them both beneath her chest.

 

“Okay,” one of them whispered.

 

They can’t find it in them to be thankful to her, and Elisheva doesn’t expect them too. She wouldn’t blame them if they hated her. She rode in with that raid too, and she could only tell herself by saying that it was simply a job, a contract from Daishi that she wasn’t ready to leave yet until she knew what happened to Rigel.

 

Now both of their legs are shaking, they’re like frightened rabbits, and though she is strong – both of them together drag her down to her knees, shaking uncontrollably. If they wanted to cry, their bodies refused them, they’d cried themselves into sickness and their eyes could shed no more.

 

The brown-haired one, she learned, was Minya, and the boyish one was named Zirha. It was a relief that she could speak a language she knew better, to both of them.

 

“You’re not Dothraki are you?” Minya asked, finally she was comfortable enough and Elisheva had taken down her clothes. She could have touched her, but did not. The piss-stained clothes were thrown away, and the girl given a leather skirt. Eventually, to prove her lack of ill will, she had dipped a rag in flower water, and rubbed it down the length of Minya’s legs.

 

Dothraki wouldn’t do this.

 

She had blushed with embarrassment, but Elisheva worked diligently, so long as the tent flap was shut, she was fine to do this to them. The Dorne wiped her of the disgusting feeling of having soiled herself, allowed tenaciously to be intimately close.

 

“I am Dornish,” her voice warmed with pride.  She spoke of how she got there, and her pity. “I belonged here no less than you,”

 

“Then go back,” said Zirha “-you still have a family,” bitterness in her croaky, tired tone.

 

“I must go to a city where I can send a raven home. I cannot leave Essos without knowing Rigel is coming home, or it would all be for nothing, and it simply cannot be for nothing. Do you understand?”

 

They did, but they didn’t have to like it, still, if not for her – they wouldn’t be alive. Safe.

 

“As soon as I know he’s alright, I will be going back to Westeros,” she looked at these abandoned girls. Their faces fell – because mercy only lasted so long as Elisheva was there, as soon as she wasn’t, they shuddered to think of their fates. Zirha thought she may actually end her own life rather than deal with that kind of a future. Her mother would not want her to suffer like this.

 

“You could come with me, if there’s truly nothing for you here,” said Elisheva passively, ignoring the wide-eyed looks she was receiving.

 

“I have a large family, and many sisters. We’re in need of handmaidens. I can only keep you safe so long as you are at my side. I could leave you anywhere in Essos once I have gotten word out, but these are your choices,”

 

Zirha didn’t know what to think, except that her head hurt and she wanted to sleep off her breakdown, Minya had her back rigid – at full attention, being doted over by the strange woman.

 

“There is no time limit on this offer, until I leave, of course,” Elisheva lowered her voice “-and I will leave. But first, we march out. I heard word of Astapor,”

 

Zirha didn’t want to talk. She curled up on the soft patch of floor in the tent there some rug was laid down and tried to rest her head. Minya is as sweet as her face made her out to be, she’s upset of course, but tingles at the thought of working for a noble house, even if it didn’t rank quite so highly as some. Her heart ached at her own selfish flash of happiness, and the small, wobbly smile dropped of her lips.

 

Minya followed, tucked behind Zirha – she hadn’t known the girl intimately in the town, but desperation brought them together, and she was not pushed away.

 

Elisheva looked at the two distraught girls and couldn’t help but feel a heavy guilt in her stomach, somehow, she did not feel like a hero, or a saviour, or a good person of any sort – and wondered just how much it would take to make a dent in lessening the blood in her ledger. If she ever could.

 

When Zirha grabbed the bone-carved knife in the dead of night, Elisheva was not surprised. It was the rustling of her movements that had woke her, and she saw the anger on her face.  She got up sleepily and grabbed her skinny wrist with great strength. Zirha didn’t drop the dagger, but found herself pulled against the woman against her shoulder and chest. The knife was wrangled out, and Zirha wondered if she was about to be suffocated when she felt the strength of the Dornish woman’s arms. Elisheva squeezes, but it does not become painful.

_“What do you think you’re doing you stupid girl?”_ Elisheva whispered, though her words were spiteful, she spoke them without malice, chiding her the way one might chide a child.

 

“I don’t know, you killed them. You killed all of them.” Zirha cried out “- and _I’m scared,_ ”

 

Her voice muffled into Elisheva’s breasts but was loud enough that Minya awoke, staring at them both blearily, her head still pounding from the force of her tears. It had taken some hours, but Zirha’s body finally allowed her to produce more, soaking the mercenary’s clothing.

 

Both became her handmaidens. There was nothing else for it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**ASTAPOR**

 

 

 

The Dothraki begin to cover their faces in sheer material to keep the brick-dust from their eyes. The Red City would near. A place no khalasar had conquered. Astapor rings of an ancient beauty, with crumbling pyramids and relics of the Ghiscari Empire in the form of shining harpies that stood tall and proud. There were poor, if any, fortifications, no gates to raise. Silk lanterns were hung in the city and truly it must look like a place of dreams when lit at dusk. If only one could forgive the blood of slaves that ran through every street and every plaza. It could not be escaped, even from the name. She even heard Aggan bite back a gasp at the great pyramid so close, many Dothraki had never seen Astapor, so like Elisheva, he struggled to contain his visceral awe.

 

Daenerys Targaryen had appointed a council to run Astapor in her stead, the Walk of Punishment and the Plaza of Pride are to be renamed to shed their Masters history. The Sons of the Harpy brew under the city, but there isn’t a single slave hung up within Astapor for the first time in decades.

 

Nor is there a single trace of the Unsullied, the city’s last and only true defence. This is what swelled Khal Charro with the bravery to take the Red City.

 

Without Unsullied slaves, they had nothing, and Daenerys Targaryen had taken all of them, even the training ones, in her efforts to build an army that could take Westeros when the time was near. Though now, it seemed she struggled enough keeping Meereen under control even with the best resources at her disposal. The cities were barren of the stone-faced guards, dirty children ran in the streets, and while there was no prevailing sense of misery in the city of slaves, it was not safe.

 

The handmaidens rode at the back, as they had no encampment set nearby, the khalasar were going to pillage Astapor for days if they could, they would milk the riches of the city until it ran completely dry. Nobody would forget the day the horselords rained blood upon their Red City, and gave more reason for their name.

 

Khal Charro rode first, sword raised. The sounds of horses neighing rang through the streets. If the city could tremble, it would have, as the khalasar descended upon them in a long stampede. The plazas were stormed with two large groups, and several splintered down the narrower streets, sending lines and lines of horses, trampling people beneath their hooves and filling pathways wall to wall with screams.

 

“Cut the head of every Astapori you see, let them never forget the day Khal Charro’s khalasar brought down their pyramids and this rich city to its knees!” Khal Charro roared.

 

Her Dothraki was better now, from nonstop speaking and listening. She still spoke like a Dornish trying to speak it, but she could understand his words fluidly.

 

Her horse kicked to its back legs and Elisheva held onto it tightly, drawing a long sword from her side and riding through the city, mounted, and trailing her sword across the throat of a travelling slave. It did not enter her mind yet that these were what remained of Daenerys’s great purge. For now, this was simply an execution, part of a larger job, and the deservedness of the rape of Astapor did not factor in.

 

The front doors of homes were kicked in, men and women were killed this time. Khal Charro was no longer taking prisoners. His khalasar was now of modest size and none were spared the mercy of becoming slaves. If he had his way, every civilian in the city would have their heads relieved from their necks.

 

“Bloodriders!” Khal Charro bellowed, riding closer to them. Aggan cut diagonally across the plaza to ride alongside him and Elisheva flanked him to the left.

 

“Ride for the pyramid! We can slit the throat of the city,” he snarled.

 

Elisheva followed, she could not resolve this with her family’s mindset of only killing with purpose. It was senseless, mindless, endless killing – and part of her was excited by it. Much of her would later be disgusted by it. Her father would be ashamed if he knew all of what she had done in Essos.

 

‘ _For family’_ she told herself.

 

She forced herself to think of Rigel, as Khal Charro ran his sword up the length of a man’s stomach in the base of the pyramid. She watched as they all ran for the doors that Aggan had locked and scratched it like pawing rats. It evoked images of herself that she didn’t want to remember.

 

Elisheva glanced away, to see the Khal staring at her expectantly.

 

She took the hip knife from her belt instead, wanting it to be quicker. The counsel was old men and women. She remembered cringing at this back in Lhazar, only to find herself driving the bone blade into the back of an old man's head.

 

‘ _Sleep now.’_

 

She thought, hoping that her method at least, had made this clean, and quick.

 

‘ _For family.’_

“I’m going to raid this place and see what they have, we should split up. It’s large.”  She said harshly, leaving the pile of bodies where it was, crudely on top of each other, blood pools mingling. The Astapori council lay dead.

 

She went in search of ravens.

 

 

* * *

 

The Rape of Astapor lasted three days and three nights.

 

There was not an Unsullied in sight, and soon it seemed like that the Dothraki could be the new Kings of this city, and none had seen fit to challenge them. That was until a great shadow passed over Khal Charro, Aggan, a few Dothraki and Elisheva herself. It was as though a great bird had flown directly over the sun and was casting a shadow over the tribe.

 

A scream tears at her throat before she can stop it. A great chill of terror tingles down her back as she kicks her heels at either side of the horse and forces it to ride as fast as it can from the pyramid.

 

It was a great, scaly creature with rows upon rows of teeth like it almost had too many for its face.

 

“ZHAVORSA!” – it opens its massive mouth, and a great belch of fire left it, setting alight roofs and men alike. It hit the tail of Elisheva’s stallion – but a feminine scream makes her turn.

 

“Zirha!”

 

Zirha is burning, trying so hard to ride away from the presence of Drogon. Khal Charro had spoken of three when talking of the Unburnt Witch, more monsters would follow.

 

“ZIRHA!” against all sense, Elisheva rides for Zirha, but her whole body sways to the right of the horse she shared with Minya, whose nowhere in sight, and simply drops. She’s rolling on the ground, screaming, her skin melting and burning.

 

It is the mercy of Aggan’s horse that kills her.

 

Elisheva snarled at the swooping Drogon, who was now circling overhead – but the only thing on her mind is Minya.

 

She calls out for her as she rode through the Walk of Punishment, where crucifixion boards hung, screaming the woman’s name as loudly as she could, having not seen her in the plazas.

It is a miracle when she sees the tiny Lhazar came running out from behind one, and she pulls the woman up without having her stop for even a second.

“Zirha?!” she yelled over the panicking Dothraki hoard, Elisheva said nothing, tightening her grip on the reins. The horsemen are made to flee in terror.

 

The Raped City burns behind them. They desperately flee from the sight of Drogon, but it is too late for some, as there is a trail of horses and their dead riders, burning along the path to Astapor, making a trail of death that could make any Master proud.

 

If only Daenerys could have seen it herself.

 

The remaining hoard are met with spear-clad stone-faced men, marching in unison, a small number, maybe half the size of their own, but with a dragon? Easily even. Khal Charro, Aggan, Elisheva and Minya are eye to eye with a legion of Unsullied.

 

Elisheva redraws her sword, and holds Minya to her chest, like a precious gem.

 

 ** _“I’m not dying here!”_** she snarled, grey eyes burning with a will to survive.

 

Khal Charro agreed, and continued his charge, splitting his remaining Dothraki into several paths – forcing the Unsullied apart.

 

It would be a battle to mark Khal Charro in a league of his very own. They still had more men, and many had escaped. The Unsullied took out a few horses, forcing many of them to fight on foot. Many horses in fact.

 

Unsullied scalps were scattered across the sands and dirt ground, which ran red with blood. Aggan lay dead in the waste of spears, shields and bodies.  If not for the horses and sheer number, they might not have survived.

 

They had to leave, before Daenerys had to realise just how big their khalasar had been, and send more.

 

Khal Charro fled, not in victory, nor in defeat, but clearly remained underestimated, and yet Astapor burned.

 

Astapor burned and the world would remember.

 

* * *

 

 

 

They rode for days in fear of Drogon, the Silver Bitch and her dragons would pursue them to the ends of the world once they knew the severity of what they’d done to Astapor. They were relying on the time it took to travel from Astapor to Meereen. They could not stop anywhere. The survivors rode on and on until they were safely within the Red Waste.

 

The Bone Mountains were visible in the distance, but they kept riding. If the Dothraki Sea seemed vast, the Red Waste was nothing but uninhabitable refuse as far as anyone could see.

 

There was nothing, save for devilgrass and bones. Four more died simply crossing, the modest khalasar becoming a little small once more – finally, some pillars came into view, standing weakly in the vast emptiness of the Waste.

 

Ruins. Ancient ruins. Possibly structurally unsound, but could provide visual coverage away from Drogon, and the sun.

 

“A Ghost City,” stated Khal Charro. He spoke to Elisheva more now. She was his only Bloodrider left.

 

They rode in silence. The weight of their spoils seemed so much more like a burden now.

 

Minya began to cry – for the loss of Zirha, out of terror, out of a need for stability, she had a thousand reasons to cry, and where a barbarian would have silenced her for the annoying, weakling sounds. None stopped her. Many almost wished they could join her.

 

The terror of dragons had uniformly washed over the group.

 

“The Silver Witch,” said the Khal after a long moment “-is a Mother of Monsters,”

 

Elisheva said nothing, because while his words were true, she could not help but remember the faces of the dead Astapori council, and merely held Minya as she cried.

 

The night was long.

 

Many Dothraki who would not have previously saught the body of another did. There was no sex after this conquest. There were no tears – save for Minya’s – either. They took a rest, as it had been three days since any of them had, but it was not an easy one.

 

Some paced up and down after nightmares, tracing the patterns inscribed on the ruins of the ghost city, which Daenerys had renamed Vaes Tolorro, but Khal Charro simply called a Dragonshelter. There was no food save for what they had pillaged, some had been dropped to make the horses lighter as they fled.

 

They slowly ate through their food, but there was still more people than what they had, though they lost many in the battle, they’d lost more fleeing. They were not empty handed, but it would only go so far.

 

Khal Charro could only hope that it would be enough to withstand the rest of the Red Waste, and get them back to Vaes Dothrak in peace.

 


	3. Any Means Necessary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> King's Landing incoming soon, meaning, our darling Cleganes :3 - sorry for the long wait, I'm now on a massive MSI Gaming laptop and not squinting at a tinyass shitty half-broken Notebook screen, so between university stuff, writing this should be marginally easier.

 

**Any Means Necessary**

 

The words ‘Any Means Necessary’ pervaded in Elisheva’s mind as she toyed with the soft and flavourless meat in her mouth.  It had a flavour, but her mind could not register it as anything but tasteless mush. Her House Words did not fill her with strength.

 

Minya pulled a face, looking like a child as she pinched her lips when she had such naturally swollen cheeks.

 

“It’s soft pork,” said Elisheva.

 

Minya’s hazel eyes shined and the disgust started to melt on her face as she chewed, her throat thickened up like she could throw up any second and kept swallowing, keeping her lips shut. The Dorne was rubbing her back, like it would somehow ease the meat down. She glanced nervously over her shoulder at other Dothraki, who were hungry, sweating and watching the Great Games dispassionately.

 

‘The Great Games’ – what a joke.

 

Khal Charro could dress it any way he pleased, but the fact was, it was a bunch of starving men kneeing each other in the face over rations in the middle of nowhere.

 

 _“Mnngngn---“_ Minya let out a muffled noise, she looked like she was turning puce.

 

“If they see you vomiting, I don’t know that I could keep back their rage. Please. Just pretend its pork,”

 

Her tone was gentle but urgent, and Minya didn’t know how to cope with the idea of Elisheva not being able to protect her. The handmaiden swallowed, before gagging, back arching and tears rising out of her eyes.

 

“Good girl,” Elisheva could still feel the taste in her teeth too. It never quite did wash out naturally, even if she had a slightly easier time of it.  “Good girl,”

 

“Milady I feel sick in my tummy,” the woman burbled out in Valyrian.

 

The meat they were eating wasn’t horse, the horses were valuable, and sacred. The Unsullied had taken out a good many, and now there were more riders than horses. Many had to lag on foot, and the hoard could not slow down, so they died on their feet.

 

That just left the riders, and lo, the Great Games were born.

 

Minya wasn’t sure she could cope; she wasn’t sure how Elisheva did. She would walk into a tent and come out with a thousand-league stare, covered in blood up to her elbows. Then dinner would be made. Minya was not sure that she could bare Elisheva's presence when she did things like that, because the thick smell of cooked meat that wasn't....that wasn't animal meat, would cling to her, and it would make the handmaiden nauseous all over again.

 

The ride to Vaes Dothrak was quiet, there was no conversation, if words were exchanged, they were short with each other. None wanted to see anyone waiting for them at Vaes Dothrak either. They’d all seen far too much. There was baited breath upon reaching the great Horse Gate once more, and there was a wariness, like the khalasar expected the great shadow of Drogon to be waiting for them. It was Elisheva who rode along side the Khal, forcing the horse to trot along ahead once they shed their weapons at the gates once more. There was collective relief when there was no 'welcome party' awaiting them, and indeed, the city seemed to be functioning as usual.

 

It was jarring to come back to so much normalcy.

In Vaes Dothrak, they were at least, rich and renowned men, and Daenerys’s Meereen struggle had prevented her from paying attention to Astapor in time, but Elisheva seethed. She seethed with a rage that she struggled to explain to Minya, or any of the Dothraki.

 

Khal Charro understood, because he was the one who had given permission for Jargo to satiate his tastes for an exotic slave, so long as they’d be shared. He did not begrudge his only remaining Bloodrider for the moment being, seeking revenge against Daishi. The weapons had all been stowed close to the Horse Gate, and he had no idea what unholiness the Dorne had planned to bring to the Sacred City, but he would have no part of it.

 

Khal Charro kept himself distracted by his own thoughts of revenge, and assigning blame. Much of it he lumped on the Silver Witch, and went about arranging a summit with the Dosh Khaleen at their temple. She clearly thought herself above the traditions of the culture that crowned her queen, and for Charro, this was the only way that he could think of hurting the woman that unleashed Drogon upon his people. He needed any excuse for his rage, he had already taken a keen dislike to the ruling Targaryen and the unleashing of Drogon had only served to stoke the fires. She was never supposed to be queen, especially not the self-styled queen of Meereen, soon she would probably look to taking Essos if she didn't have sights across the Narrow Sea, and then what? This entitled little bitch and her dragons, swooping down over his khalasar, telling them which traditions to abandon and who to bend the knee to. He had watched her swallow the stallion's heart when she first had to seek acceptance into the Dothraki, the woman nearly threw it up. She had done it, but he had not been too impressed, and in the span of days, he had already seen Elisheva do much, much worse, and not balk half as much. She disapproved many things, but offered constructive alternatives when she could and kept silent if she could not. The Silver Witch didn't even see fit to even audience the Dosh Khaleen, as a dowager of a khal should - and yet she thought she could impose herself on Essos? The hatred kept Khal Charro distracted. It gave him someone to hate, a purpose, and a reason to build his khalasar, to be what Drogo eventually became too soft to be.

 

It was because of this, that Elisheva and Minya were allowed to walk freely, taking advantage of the tribe’s disarray.

 

She headed immediately for the Eastern Market, only to find Daishi’s stall absent, of both the stock and the man.

 

“Milady?” Minya shyly gripped the muscles of her arm “-can we please – can we please end it? I may not be worldly, but I know no violence is supposed to take place here. Please, I’m already so scared that we might turn and see an Unsullied,”

 

Perhaps it was the smallness of her voice or how pleading her stare was, but her fear had pulled Elisheva away from Daishi’s tent.

 

Any raven response she had asked for from Meereen would have been sent to the location she had penned as her next stop – Shamyriana. They were able to buy food – real food – and take the Stone Road through the ruined cities of Adakhakileki and Vaes Jini. It wasn’t any safer than the Red Waste, but at least the Bone Mountains didn’t feel like they were actively trying to kill the pair. The horses manoeuvred with ease, and they reached Shamyriana. The roads were marked only by worn footpaths in the sand, and in many places there was no construction at all, and eventually, rockier and rockier formations began to come into view, with the shadows of tall, strange buildings mounted and leering above them.

 

Elisheva did not expect to be parted from the tribe so easily, and neither did Minya, but it seemed the appearance of Drogon had at least done them some good, and set Khal Charro on a centred path to try and make Daenerys’s life as hard as possible, and allowed for them to slip away.

It was the first time Minya hadn’t felt afraid since the sacking of Lhazar.

 

The actual city itself seemed more like a fortress, half-built into the mountains. None of it was welcoming, but had they been men, they might have had a harder time. Instead, all they saw were women, brightly adorned with gems upon their cheeks and iron rings pierced through their breasts that pressed against thin sheets of sheer as dresses.

 

Minya had never known such a strange and beautiful people to exist in Essos, and could not find any one place to keep her eyes. Warrior Maids – they were called, and all the men were “Sad eunuchs,” – in Elisheva’s words.

 

There was a woman who cornered them upon entry, named Iraashi. She was lithe and had the body of a runner. They called her the Spider – because of the thinness of her limbs, even if she had muscle in her back and her arms from heavy bow work, it didn’t show. She had strange, sea-blue coloured hair and eyes to match, with a skin darker than Elisheva had ever seen, but beautiful all the same. She had little in the chest or hips, but everything about her was pleasantly slender. Thankfully, Valyrian was known here, and she was able to barter for a boat. Unfortunately, Elisheva had no idea how to man a boat and neither did Minya, and so they found themselves paying for Iraashi’s services.

 

“Through the Basilisk Isles we’ll have to be careful. Pirates, you know,” Elisheva watched as Iraashi admired her muscles, helping pluck Minya from the horse with too much ease.

 

“You’re a warrior?” Iraashi asked, loading the horse onto a small boat that had but one lower floor and one upper, with few rooms. It took a fourth of Elisheva’s spoils in total.

 

“Mercenary – Dornish,” said the woman shortly, before realizing the state of her manners had truly deteriorated in Essos, and sighed.

 

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be curt with you,” she closed her eyes and sighed “-it’s been a rough time for us,” it was a relief just that the Shamyrianian Consulary had letters addressed to the Great Fathers and people of importance that found themselves there, needing to pick up a message. The wax sealed scrolls, guarded by a single, overwhelmed eunuch. Rigel had set sail from Braavos some time ago, and it seemed that Daishi wasn’t a _complete_ and utter liar.

 

The stranger was added to the journey, whether they liked it or not, at the very least – she agreed to teach Elisheva how to man the boat until they got to Qarth, where she was intent on going, for reasons she refused to disclose.

Minya let out a small little squeak when she was given Kumys to try for the first time – some milky alcohol that Elisheva picked up on the way out of Vaes Dothrak. She pulled such a face that Iraashi couldn’t help but laugh at her, making the handmaiden flush with embarrassment.

 

“She is cute,” Elisheva agreed, worsening it until Minya dismissed herself from the small table that was on board the boat, across from the Captain’s Quarters. The horse occasionally made displeasured neighs from the aired out cargo area, making the Dorne feel a little bad for it.

 

“She stared at me a lot,” commented Iraashi, making the other woman snort.

 

“Of course she did, she’s never even left her little farm town until I claimed her in a raid, then here you and your people come, with – those,” Elisheva gestured crudely to her chest.

 

“Breasts?” Iraashi was confused, because they weren’t particularly large, until she realized that the Dorne was referring to the iron rings pierced in her nipples.

 

“Oh!” Elisheva resisted the urge to be surprised when Iraashi pulled down the sheer she was wearing – not that it covered much, and unveiled her breasts at the table. “These?”

 

“These?” the woman repeated patiently, making Elisheva snap out of her daze for a second.

 

“Erm – yes,” she peered closer “-Gods almighty, didn’t that hurt?!”

 

Elisheva felt like she had ghost pains in her chest just looking at them, and whilst the rings weren’t ugly, she could only think of how badly it must have hurt to do and resisted the urge to protectively cup her own chest to stop any errant piercers. Iraashi seemed amused by the response though, and continued to talk about the process, just to watch the tall woman squirm.

 

“When they stop being sore it actually feels quite nice,” she continued, getting up and walking closer to her. Elisheva got up, and raised an eyebrow at the woman’s rather forthcoming behaviour.

 

“I don’t suppose I’m tempting you to get them, am I?” said Iraashi with a small grin.

 

Elisheva almost cringed at the thought, mind rushing to catch up with her and stop staring at her strange exoticness.

 

“You’re tempting me for something,” she said. Kumys was rolling off of her breathe. It wasn’t that she was even particularly frisky, but it felt like nonstop since Astapor, or even since she last saw Daishi, that she had no respite. Not a single moment where she felt utterly at peace and in control, and Elisheva felt the most of that in bed. It was catharsis for her, something she’d been utterly lacking recently. It’s why she came onto the woman with all the subtlety of a brick.

 

“If it’s these, I’m sure you can just look down and find yourself in excess,” replied Iraashi, dryly.

 

Well, the woman wasn’t wrong, but that was a bit of a cold shut-down.

 

“Then I’m going to the Captain’s Quarters to sleep this alcohol off,” said Elisheva.

 

“But I’m manning the boat, doesn’t that make me captain?” said Iraashi cheekily.

 

“It’s set to stay the same course for a while, and I paid, so it’s my boat. I’m going to the Captain Quarters, whether you bother is your choice,” said Elisheva tartly, before turning heel and heading there. The Quarters itself wasn’t very large, though the bed was, there was only one small end table and a lantern made of animal horn. Little else, but it was enough for Elisheva to relax in. Very little light poured in otherwise, but finally she could rest.

 

Snapping bone, sinew and blood filled her ears when she closed her eyes – and burning horses. She wasn’t even sure if it was the fire she was scared of – it had to be the dragon, but the smell of the seared flesh persisted under her nose. Drogon was everywhere sometimes, even under her eyelids, when all she should see was black. That scaled beast would come into view, it's massive, distending jaw opening and revealing a bottomless void until bright sprays of fire roared out and for a moment, Elisheva was certain that the Hells had finally taken her.

 

Her heart skipped a few beats. She knew she wasn’t dreaming, but the memories felt strong – almost tangible. It used to happen before – when she thought about Yunkai. Her mind would flash to earlier contracts – and the young, stern yet wholly unwelcoming face of Vidar zo Yaziq.

 

Elisheva gasped sharply in the bed, feeling the sheets move. She almost moved for the end table knife until she saw the flash of sea-blue in the sheets out of her peripheral vision and sighed. Anxiety still hit her in waves as she felt the woman shifting around in the covers, before reaching out to touch her raised scars.

 

“What of these? Dothraki don’t ink like this, they don’t feel…new, but rough,” said the woman, struggling to articulate it as her fingers brushed Elisheva’s skin. It took her a moment to remember she had actually invited Iraashi there, and that she seemed to have reconsidered her clumsy offer.

 

“A hot knife,” said Elisheva shortly.

 

“A hot knife, then the wounds are cleaned out with sour fruit juice. We dip jagged rocks into them, and rub it into the cuts every day until the heal over at their angriest,” she paused at the look on Iraashi’s face.

 

“It’s a happy thing in my family. A rite of passage, “the woman closed her eyes and sighed, trying to calm down her sleep-induced anxiety.

 

“So are the rings,” said Iraashi after a moment “-there are very few women without them in Shamyriana. The ones who do not pierce are considered…strange.”

 

There is silence between them for a moment, and Iraashi is wondering why Elisheva made such a forward remark if she wasn’t going to do anything, but then the Warrior Maid heard her belaboured breaths, and saw the thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. She was beautiful but troubled, and so the onus was on Iraashi to do something now.

 

“Is everything alright?”

 

“It’s fine – I’m - just a little…. Knotted up. Winded. Exhausted. Tired but not the sleeping kind. My apologies,” said Elisheva.

 

Iraashi gave her a strange look, and moved under the sheets, before hesitantly pulling a muscled arm into her body, making the Dorne turn her head on the pillow in surprise. There was a lot of bare skin she was feeling, before it registered that Iraashi had undressed and slid under the sheets with her.

 

_‘Oh.’_

 

“We should do something about that,” mused Iraashi. She shifted her weight so that she was moving closer to the Dorne, and awkwardly began to loosen the leather straps that made up her outfit under the sheets.

 

When Elisheva didn’t stop that, Iraashi took that to mean she could continue. Iraashi looked down on the woman, and found her quite interesting. With her hair not tied in a braid or in an updo, it was long, black and fell in waves down her shoulders and across the bedding. It was halfway down her back when standing. Under Iraashi, she was like a spread out fan of beauty. A button nose but hard grey eyes and a face with a graceful bone structure.

Upon picking at her leathers, Iraashi found herself staring down at the significantly more endowed woman. She didn’t know if she was jealous of her, wanted her, or wanted to be her. She moved down the covers and found her nose pressing against firm, hard, abdominal muscles in wonderment. How did she build muscle like a man? But also have all of her soft parts?

 

 _“Got a husband?”_ Iraashi breathed against her skin and raised goosebumps “-I’d find it hard to believe if you don’t,”

 

“Oh – uhm – ah, I don’t – no. No husband,” said Elisheva headily. She glanced down at the head moving under the covers and didn’t quite have the will to move the sheet off of her yet. There was something arousing about not knowing quite what she was doing, but simply feeling it instead.

 

Iraashi made a noise that Elisheva couldn’t decipher, until she felt a tugging sensation at her thighs, pushing them apart with a certain lack of grace. She couldn’t tell what hand – which finger, which part, anything of anything – she could just feel that she was getting touched.

 

Both knees jerked up against the thin sheet a little in surprise, gasping slightly. Iraashi was gently pressing – something – to the outside of her pussy. A small rush of heat started to travel down Elisheva’s front, a slow heat building betwixt her thighs.

 

Iraashi scoffed at her under the covers, as though amused when she felt herself slip and the Dorne gasp again, sharply.

 

“What the—“ she bit down on her lower lip. Iraashi had – somewhat intentionally, circled around her entrance and brushed her clitoris, only to press somewhat too hard, and be guided hungrily and gracelessly into her body, encapsulating her whole finger. “Hells!”

 

“By the Grace of Gods,” sighed Iraashi into her thighs “-when was the last time you were had?” she had the nerve to pace this sort of thing – but she hadn’t expected the woman to get quite so wet, quite so fast. ‘Knotted up ‘ – may have been an understatement.

 

“Sh-shut…shut up,” Elisheva said through gritted teeth, her ears burning with heat. It hadn’t hurt, in fact, it felt good – but the speed and ease did not speak well of her. It made her feel desperate and pent up like an untouched dowager when she was anything but.

 

Iraashi didn’t say anything, instead, Elisheva felt her moving the digit idly and finding far too much free range for what was the very beginning of intimacy. Elisheva let out a discontent noise when Iraashi slid it out, and smirked a bit at the state she’d left her finger in, chuckling softly at her. Maybe it was being laughed at more than the lack of control but Elisheva could not stand this.

 

“Shut up,” Elisheva snapped at the Warrior Maid’s chuckles, sitting upright sharply. She took the covers off and pulled the woman up by her shoulders suddenly, before pulling her against her naked body and rolling them over on the bed aggressively.

 

“Shut up,” she hissed, moving her head down the covers. Iraashi hadn’t bothered with cottons, which was good, because it gave her less to rip off. Iraashi didn’t realise her gentle teasing would cause such a severe reaction, she didn’t mean any ill by it, but it had annoyed the Dorne.

 

Iraashi blinked as her long, thin legs were easily pulled apart in a swift movement. She couldn’t lock them together even if she wanted too. Elisheva’s arms were far too powerful.

 

The Warrior Maid felt herself becoming inexplicably embarrassed from the severity of Elisheva’s stare. The woman moved in swift, predatory moves, like a panther almost, even her stare was an uncomfortably hungry one, prowling up her body from her legs to her thighs. Iraashi felt an excitable sort of anxiety mount as Elisheva neared. Her hands now clamped to her legs and fingers wedged into the flesh of her dark thighs.

 

Elisheva said nothing when she struck, running her tongue in a teasing circle around her pussy. Iraashi quivered all over, sighing heavily. She didn’t expect this when she saw how wiped out the woman had looked in bed.

 

Now she seemed just – sexually charged – and kept doing so, pressing her lips to her and breathing heavily through her nose just to force Iraashi to withstand all of the sensations she couldn’t bear. Elisheva could feel the muscles tightening under her fingers as she kept her thighs apart with a vice-like grip, likely leaving light bruising when she’d finish.

 

“Oh – _ohkay I’m sorry,”_ Iraashi moved her head back, strands of sea-blue sticking to her forehead as she whimpered.

Elisheva did not stop, the apology instead, wreaking more of her ministrations. She slid her tongue inside of Iraashi with ease. Every part of her mouth could taste her and feel her every twitch. Every contraction. It was this level of control that made her happy – that made Elisheva feel grounded, like in this moment, in the lusty haze, she was in utter control of everything Iraashi thought about her and she would _not_ be laughed at, lightly or not.

 

Everything that could control Iraashi was in front of Elisheva and she had no intent of letting it go, and Iraashi was doing her damned best to straddle the Dorne’s face. The centre of everything she had lusted for in the exotic woman was _right in front of her_ and fed the hungry and frantic licking that persisted to torture the Warrior Maid.

 

Iraashi was squeaking now – not moaning but squeaking, making sounds that would have embarrassed her in any other situation but this one. She wanted to warn the woman, but instead her hands got lost in the soft tufts of black hair, as though trying to steer her tongue from the forceful grabbing and guiding of her head, not allowing her to draw breathe anywhere but her nose. She could have suffocated the woman and not cared in that moment. She simply kept trying to mount higher and higher against Elisheva’s tongue, as if that would somehow keep up the amazing angle and intensify it any more than it was. She raised, raised and raised herself until she was close to riding the woman’s chin and couldn’t hold herself up anymore as she felt her orgasm coming over her with unpreventable force.

 

Her knees lost all strength and her heart jumped into her mouth for a second, euphoria hitting her and turning every muscle inside of her into a soft jelly that made her sink back into the bed.

 

Iraashi swore as Elisheva finally pulled her head out and released her thighs, showing finger shaped bruises, wiping her shining lips and chin on the back of her hand. She couldn’t have looked anymore smug if she tried.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Minya could not account for Elisheva’s rapidly improved mood, at the very least, she seemed a lot more in control, like how she was before - well, before Astapor. It seemed that physical contact was one of those few things that could actually make her feel human again, that and drinking.

She spent hours learning how to do Elisheva’s hair – because it was so long and there was so much of it! There were hundreds of ways to make it gorgeous – to oil it like a Qartheen and twist it, to brush and braid it up, or down, or partially – in tens of hundreds of ways. Minya was never intended to be a handmaiden, she was a tailor really, so she was learning, but Elisheva was always gentle with her. Coaxing her. Telling her how to do certain things. She was already better than her own father, and easily better than slavers and masters, surely, not all nobles in Westeros were like this.

 

Part of it was because Minya had lost everything, but it seemed that Elisheva never tired of saying “Good girl,” when she did well, and encouraging her over every little thing. She was even teaching her how to read and write in Common!

 

When Elisheva seemed sad that Iraashi was insistent on docking Qarth, Minya had no way of cheering her up. She spent hours beating out the stains at the edges of some of Elisheva’s clothes – without being asked, and wondered what she could do to possibly make her less…sad.

 

It was as though Iraashi had made her happy for a moment, but now she was sad again. Taciturn sometimes. Though even in her bad moods, she would still find the time to hold Minya when she had nightmares about the attack on Lhazar, or Drogon.

 

Minya just wished that Elisheva would let her do the same. Surely, she had to suffer too? She was just one of these people that had a habit of maintaining a stiff upper lip to a fault, and the young girl had no idea how to make it better.

 

“I cleaned your clothes, and your pretty dress,” she held out the long Qartheen dress when the boat left the docks, shyly, then asked if she would wear it in Westeros.

Elisheva looked touched, and a bit sad to shoot it down.

 

“Only whores wear such things in Westeros, even if I happen to look good in it,” – Minya’s face sagged, and Elisheva could not bear it. She wore it on the boat at least, and thanked the handmaiden, handing one of her family’s ornate snake pins from her hair, and gently clipping it into her brown locks.

 

“You’re a good girl,” she said gently “-I’m sorry I can’t give you much better,”

 

Minya shook her head vehemently.

 

“Sooner or later, the Dothraki always come. Unless I left Lhazar, this was always fate. I was lucky to survive all those other times, and even luckier you claimed me,” Minya mumbled.

 

“And now you’re taking me to Westeros! I’m going to see Dorne! I’m going to have a proper bed, like this one!” said Minya excitedly, gesturing to the bed in the boat which was more that hard reeds.

 

“Well, it won’t be the Red Keep,” said Elisheva, wanting the girl to manage her expectations “-but you will have a proper bed.”

 

Minya’s attitude warmed her heart, but the more Elisheva cared for her, the more she reflected on what they did at Lhazar. She wondered how Minya could stand to like her and serve her after all that she’d partaken in.

 

The Rape of Astapor should have driven her away, not closer, but it did – perhaps because Minya had nobody else left.

 

It was a long way around the Valyrian peninsula, a place of stonemen and horror now, a complete ruination, Elisheva had done her damn best to move the boat across the Summer Seas until Westeros was in sight.

 

It took Minya a very short amount of time to realise that Elisheva Brimsblood was a strange and shattered woman.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**DORNE**

**HELLHOLT | SCARWOOD KEEP**

 

 

House Uller was a high ranking noble house within Dorne, and was known to be in the company of the Martells and the Gargalens, even if the latter was begrudgingly so. Their seat was once the Hellholt until they'd fled during the civil war, before returning to the huge, ominous, stinking castle within the desert. It was a fitting seat for that kind of a family. The Brimsbloods thought them the Targayreans of Dorne, and the opinion was shared by many behind closed doors - they were known to be "Half of the Ullers are mad, the other half are worse," - it should have been no suprise then that Lord Harmen Uller's best offspring were the bastards with diluted blood.

 

Bastards that sat mere inches away from the highest seat in Dorne. 

 

Ellaria Martell, and her daughters. Ullers by blood - even if it was dirty blood. They were staunch supporters of House Martell during the civil war, but they were wild as they were unpredictable, and engaging them was as dangerous as allying with a Bolton in the North. It was of no surprise - to Ser Ulwyck Uller at least, when his brother, Lord Harmen, was furious that Myrcella Baratheon was going to be crowned princess of Dorne at the behest of Doran Martell. A Lannister in a Baratheon's coat was still a Lannister, and Lannisters were still responsible for the heaving damage done to House Martell, when the Mountain had come and killed their royal babes, before raping and murdering their queen.

 

Gods, Lord Harmen remembered, even if none of these other bastards did.

 

When Lord Harmen had an idea in his head, it took nothing short of the will of Gods to get it out again. Ulwyck knew this, and so when the time came - they knew they would need all of the allies that they could muster.

 

And so, unrest was sown in Dorne.

 

Some leagues from the Hellholt, out of the thick of the desert and somewhat closer to the Salt Shores of House Gargalen, lay a modest but tall Keep of black stone. It absorbed all of the sun in the skies but persisted to glow like an obsidian in the sands. Hanging from the very tallest tower of the Keep was a flag that bore dark greens and beige. Downward upon it was the shadow of a great, hulking war-axe that could only be held by both hands if such a thing truly existed. Curled around it's hilt was a serpentine creature that split into two heads, hissing from either side of the axe handle in perfect symmetry - a two-headed snake. In front was a larger expanse of land that had bags of rocks and sun-bleached targets that were covered in arrows. A training ground of good size that made more use of the land than the Keep itself did.

 

This was Scarwood Keep, and for House Brimsblood, this was home.

 

Lined across the Salt Shore had been a small group to welcome them home. Three men of varying, but tall heights and widths - the tallest by far - and even an inch or two above Elisheva, was Dyne. Standing as tall as his shoulder, was Elias and finally - ah -  _Rigel!_

 

Relief washed over Elisheva when they reached the shore. Minya held the back of her clothes like a small child, eyes travelling over the stretch of golden sand and the handsome faces of the Dornish woman's brothers. Dyne looked upon her, and instantly felt a sense of foreboding that he could not place. It reminded him of another time, when he'd stood at that same place, looking out at a strange boat, and seeing his younger, distraught sister. He remembered how devastated her face had been, carrying in her arms, their oldest sibling, Emilar. He had been terribly pale and emaciated, his long limbs curled around Elisheva hopelessly as she carried him off of the boat, too ill to have shame. Emilar had been her mentor-sibling, the one who went on Elisheva's first contracts in Essos and etched her Rite of Passage on her back. He'd come back from Essos sick, and he simply would not get better, no matter what Maester Raegis did.

 

Now, he was staring at a scene that reminded him so much of that moment, but there was nobody in her arms now. She wasn't visibly hurt, eyes stinging with tears and ringed red from crying. No. Now she was taller, stronger and more aloof than he'd ever seen her before, with a thousand-league stare that made him want to shake her and tell him everything that transpired while she was in Essos. Behind her was a small rabbit of a girl, trying to put herself behind Elisheva's legs and back as Dyne looked at her. 

 

On her body was a beautiful Astapori dress, white and sheer in that he can see the dark silhouette of her body through it - legs and all, but his eyes go to the blue lapis lazuli that drapes off of it. He doesn't get to see Elisheva in dresses as much as his other sisters, this was a pleasant surprise, but it's Elias whose looking at her perversely. His eyes also flit to the smaller girl that Elisheva has brought with her, greed flashing in his face, mixed with genuine relief that his sister was home. He's just sixteen but already as ruggedly handsome as his brothers, but choosing to keep his hair shirt and tunics open. 

 

Elisheva's eyes land on Rigel, his hair is cut at his chin and he has a small goatee that she didn't remember him having.  Usually the colour would drain out of his face when he had to deal with Elisheva one to one, but he throws both of his arms around her, squeezing as hard as he possibly can. 

 

"Thank you," Rigel blurts out. He doesn't stop thanking her until the brothers have ushered her into Scarwood Keep, barely taking a moment to get Minya's name, but Elisheva grabs her wrist, pulling her into the fold and refusing to leave her on the sidelines. The keep isn't very decorated, and the walls are entirely too barren, but it still felt like home, as though love poured through the very walls of the place. They barely give her a second - she doesn't even get to see her other brothers, Corsaius and Osundare, and Tybera was now living with the Gargalens, with her hubby - and Taemun with Jossa, leaving Elisheva out of sorts - unable to see all of her brood at once even though it had been so long.

 

Minya smothers her gasp when she first sees Lord Talwar.

 

Lord Talwar is a man as wide as a doorframe and every inch of him was muscle, muscle that he kept on display, as even when his arms moved in an overly ornate golden Dornish tunic, the material strains around every bicep, like it could rip at any second. His body is covered with dark, raised scars like Elisheva's back, only his almost reads like a map, beautiful and immense and somewhat shrouding the articulation of his abdominal muscles. Poor Minya did not know where to put her eyes, staring intensely at the man's boots until she saw a snake that was almost half the length of the War Room slithering up Lord Talwar's back, while the man seemed wholly unbothered by it.

 

The snake is petrifying, and her fear is almost tangible, so much so that Elisheva actually chuckles, and squeezes her shoulder, before moving to stand in front of her instead of beside her.

 

"You have no reason to fear of Blackbone, he has hunted, and he is well-fed," said Lord Talwar, with a voice that was just as deep as Minya had expected. His words were supposed to be comforting, and Minya was glad she could understand at least a little Common because of Elisheva, but just the words 'hunted' and 'fed' had made her face drain utterly of colour, and Talwar's kind efforts were a bit lost on her. 

 

"I know you were doing your best to have your brother returned from Essos, and I am proud of you for all of your efforts," said Talwar, addressing his daughter.

 

"Unfortunately, Silas was not easily reasoned with, even with what you managed to earn, and I hear it was a generous sum. Rigel was forthcoming with the gravity of his debt," Talwar scowled "-believe me, he will be reprimanded,"

 

Minya's eyes flitted to the tremendous two-handed axe that hung over one of the two throne-like chairs at the end of the War Room. It was like the one on the sigil, she noted. It looked like an heirloom. The room itself was covered in banners that denoted different regions of Essos, Dorne and Westeros. It was a room unlike any other she'd seen. There were long, stone tables that stretched around the entire circumference of the room almost with chairs spaced out behind them. At the centre was a large stone fixture, like a big slab of perfect square, and on it were maps upon maps, and small wooden figurines half knocked over. It was some sort of planning station, and at the head of the room, at the centre of where the stone tables met, were two chairs fit for heads of the house. The war-axe hung overhead on a trophy board, secured tightly. Minya had no doubt that Talwar could probably wield it with just one hand. "It's the Godsblood," - Elisheva had said, a weapon in her family lifted only in times of great strife, by only the head of the House. 

 

Talwar stood in front of his chair, several thick books laying on the stone table beside him.

 

"To close the debt, I had to accept some more work and send Osundare to Braavos to make sure he upheld the deal. It just so happened that a house with more gold in their coffers than sense requires our services, specifically, yours,"

 

Elisheva wanted to tell him about everything. The son of a whore - Daishi, and his betrayal. The Dothraki - Jargo and Aggan, Khal Charro, Lhazar, Astapor - the dragon, all of it. But Talwar was her father, and Gods, she couldn't bare the thought of him being disappointed in her for what she did in Astapor. She had not partaken much in Lhazar, but still. Astapor had been horrible enough that she could easily picture her Lord-Father frowning and his eyes shining with sadness and displeasure. She could not bare the thought.

 

The idea of accepting more work - it tired her. Deeply. 

 

He carries on talking regardless. 

 

"The Queen-Mother, Cersei Lannister has requested you by name. Word of your victory at the Pentoshi Games perhaps reached her, or any other of your numerous exploits of which you hardly seem to deem fit to tell us," jibed her father - making her flinch. She deserved that. It still stung. Minya saw it too, and her hand reached for the back of Elisheva's arm - reaching near her elbow and squeezing gently. Letting her know she's still there, on her side, supporting her - even as her imposing Lord-Father talks to her in such a way.

 

"What could a Lannister want with me? House Brimsblood never ranked particularly high on the list of higher house concerns, the Ullers never cease to stop reminding us," bit out Elisheva. Minya didn't know who the Ullers were or much of Westerosi politics at all, she may as well have been a newborn babe, there were probably noble girls as young as eight who knew more than her from maester's lessons.

 

"She would see that you look after her daughter, the princess Myrcella. Her letter was almost rambling yet eloquent at the same time, I wonder if perhaps she's gotten paranoid. But I could not blame her for it, did you not hear, in all of your adventures, daughter? No, from your face, clearly you have not,"

 

"I cannot begin to imagine what had you so busy that you could not hear of something that echoed through all of the Seven Kingdoms, you would do well to keep abreast even when on one of your long contracts," he was chiding her, Minya could tell from his tone.

 

Talwar delivered the news as though he was speaking of the weather.

 

"The King is dead,"

 

Elisheva did not react - she had nothing of King Joffrey but bad things. The Cruel King they called him - bereft of all of Robert Baratheon's warmth and raucousness - yet still had enough poor qualities to make him a terrible king. Elisheva did not spare a mournful thought for the boy, and usually some part of her ached for the death of the young. Not this time. When a boy is a king, he may as well be a man grown, because he is responsible for enough of them that he must be.

 

"Assassinated, by his once-betrothal, as it goes. A story as old as time, the kind we'd tuck you in with. A woman marries a man she hates as it's the done thing and the next day he's smothered under the pillow," said Talwar dryly, such macabre things were a part of Brimsblood life at this point.

 

"She would have you attend the Princess as her handmaiden and bodyguard,"

 

"And the Martells? Lord-Father, if she is at the Sunspear, is she not surrounded by Prince Oberyn and his royal bastards? What is it that the Lannister's fear so much? They were content to have her as a ward of the Martells for years and suddenly one king is dead and she fears for her daughter?" Elisheva was understandably confused, and Talwar hadn't the energy to explain the actions of the Ullers in her absence.

 

"You remember your respect for Lord Tremond, do you not? He and I have reason to believe that the Ullers have been sewing discord for some time, their allies have been a bit restless, less accommodating. Small things. The bastards have let their discontent be known, and his little birds have been telling him some worrying things. The Queen-Mother's paranoia is not wholly misplaced," said Talwar. His tone was careful. If he did not tell Elisheva what was heard, than she knew better than to ask.

 

"Lord Tremond would not have Dorne destabilised and neither would I. So you will take this contract, and you will talk to the Martells as though there is nothing afoot. When the time comes, you protect her, and when all is said and done, you can return. I will see to it that all of the brood is present. I know you miss them terribly, but most are here tonight, and I know that.... Rigel is grateful."

 

Elisheva said nothing, her stomach was in knots, she knew what was coming next. The same thing that always came next after she returned from a long trip. It never got any easier. She would rather hear this all from Rigel himself, too, but it was always her Lord-Father that she had to see first. She would be lucky if she saw her mother, who focused heavily on Tybera and her high-standing marriage to a Gargalen - twins she was carrying after all, and those were rare. Precious, even.

 

"But enough about your siblings,"

 

' _Here it comes.'_

 

"Sit with me. I would hear about your time in Essos, Sheva,"

 

Sheva. He called her that when he wanted her fullest attention, because he knew it reminded her that she would always be his little girl, even with all of her titles, accolades and reputation.

 

She could not begin to articulate her struggle.

 

 

* * *

 

**DORNE**

**THE SUNSPEAR**

 

When Myrcella Baratheon is handed a scroll with a Lannister seal - a secret one no less, she doesn't know what to make of it. Her mother seemed to think she needed protecting - more protecting - when under the watchful eye of Doran Martell himself and she could not fathom the reason. All that she knew as that it was an unwelcome intrusion on her and Prince Trystane's special time together. Everywhere she went, the damnable woman was watching.

 

They'd fed some sort of line to the Martells about having Elisheva suffering a consequence of behaving in a manner that displeased Talwar, enough that she would sentence his spinster of a daughter to be a handmaiden for the young princess when by all rights, she was the most terrifying woman in all of Dorne.

 

Some of the Sand Snakes had made jibes, and Elisheva had almost ran them through, if not for Oberyn's presence. They spoke less ill when she had left Obara with enough bruises that she did not emerge from her chambers for weeks, when challenged in fair combat.

 

Myrcella found her rather a brute.

 

"Put me down, put me down right now!" she screeched, feeling herself getting lifted by Elisheva. The woman was far too tall, too muscled in the arms and the back, enough that she could raise Myrcella off her feet and sling her over her shoulder. 

 

It was time. Doran's screams were heard from beyond the Water Gardens. It had been sudden - Myrcella had been reading by the side of the waters, and had joined Elisheva's efforts to teach Minya some Common - the only thing they seemed to get along over - before the noise was heard.

 

"You need to go," Areo Hotah's tone was sharp, he did not break pace, spear out and heading for the noise, seeing that Elisheva had also sensed a great danger.

 

" _Leave, now!"_

 

"Put me down this **INSTANT!** "

 

Elisheva and Minya bolted for the Sunspear shoreline where boats were in sight, a Gargalen flag raised highly upon one, Myrcella Baratheon screeched the entire time. Talwar was right, of course he was right. A boat was waiting - all her things ready and waiting. Elisheva felt her stomach lurch as she ran, feeling Myrcella's balled up little fists hitting her back petulantly as she flailed.

 

"What's happening?" Minya screams in her bastard Valyrian, and Elisheva can barely answer through panting, all but throwing Myrcella onto the boat with great strength. Minya scuttles on after, and Elisheva is frantically unchaining the boat from the harbour, looking in paranoia over to the Dornish palace. Guards are emerging, some have arrows. Quickly, Elisheva swerves to the right, feeling an arrow's wind hit her shoulder and drive itself into the bust of the boat.

 

At last, the boat is unchained, and Minya pulls Elisheva on board with all of the strength she had in her little body. 

 

Thank Gods the Gargalen boat is the only one in the docks. Lord Tremond had planned everything. Seen it all coming. 

 

Dorne would war over his dead damn body.

 

"Trystane!" is Myrcella's first scream, and her first worry. Elisheva grabbed her by the shoulders to stop her hurtling herself into the sea and swimming back for him, forcing her to duck down into the boat where arrows could not hit them.

 

"-will be fine, girl." Elisheva snaps, somewhat winded "-keep your head down!"

 

"What's happening?" Myrcella's still screaming, clearly in a panic now, from angered to scared - she had never seen -real- battle before, much less been in one, even with her time with the Sand Snakes, their fights seemed trifling and small. This was.... _she could have died._

 

"A coup," Elisheva grunts coldly, not caring for delivering it sensitively.

 

Dorne becomes smaller in the distance.

* * *

 

 

**KING'S LANDING**

 

Cersei could tell when Jaime did not think much of her decisions, and there were times when she would have cared for his input, and though Jaime was the true father of her children - every single one - this was not a decision that she cared to include him in. There was one simple reason, and that was that she was their mother, Jaime - was not. She had to have Myrcella back, safe, close to her chest. There was no way of delicately approaching Doran Martell and having her brought home when there were now rumours of him crowning Myrcella as Princess of Dorne. Part of her was happy about it, of course, but what if those Dornish were thinking of trying to pit her against her own family? Contest Tommen, even? It would be unusual, but not impossible. 

 

Jaime agreed with having Myrcella brought home, but he did not agree to the guard. A woman guard just seemed so - so strange, though he could not fault her logic, he did not know how a woman could keep their prize daughter safe.

 

"Not just them, the entirety of the House is under obligation that she stay safe. It is in the nature of the contract, Lord Talwar swore upon it himself," said Cersei, her tone as sharp as her stare. If Jaime were a lesser man, he'd have withered under it, but he could withstand his sister - his lover - like nobody else could. Not even Robert.

 

"If we sent several knights to Dorne and had them guarding Myrcella all of a sudden, the Martells would take issue, they would think we do not trust them anymore, and they would be correct - but I'd rather not have the cripple have any reason to make her life difficult while she's there. I just want her protected and safe, and word of Myrcella being crowned will surely set some unease in Dorne," said Cersei with a frown.

 

"I fear you may be paranoid sister," though after Joffrey's death, Jaime sounded unsure even to himself.

 

"Civil war is in their history, and the Master of Whispers so happens to agree,"

 

"It seems you have made the decision without me, sister," said Jaime.

 

He was right, of course, unawares that he would be finding himself thanking the Gods for mercy, and that his sister was for once correct in her judgement. Not a skill Cersei Lannister is known for. Tommen's excited though, less about being King, and more that he would see Myrcella again. He was soft, kind and good - all of the things that Joffrey had not been, and every bit of him ached for his sister. He was so small when she left, and his pool of memories was small, he could only remember that she was feisty, and had no fear of snarling at Joffrey when he was cruel in excess to him.

 

Tommen, even at this young age, knew he would be glad of having such a woman in his court. He hoped Myrcella hadn't changed.

 

 Elisheva tasted ash in her mouth, she was not surprised to find that Lord Tremond had planned everything - maybe too much. All of it was in the boat. Her dresses, her snake, her shoes, even her tourney armour and the family brigandine wear - most of it was tied up in her chambers not a day prior, yet there it had all been, waiting on the getaway boat. She wasn't sure whether to be impressed or disturbed, as she hadn't even noted the progressive absence of her things until she finally saw them all together, waiting on the only boat that had docked at the Sunspear. 

 

Myrcella had equally been taken care of, though more things had been missing, as the Gargalens didn't want to raise much suspicion or distrust, however anything missing was instantly replaced with something of equal finery that surely must have costed a pretty penny.

 

"They wouldn't - why - is that why you've been hovering over me?" blurted out Myrcella, walking beside Elisheva, who was now hulking beside her as they headed through to the Red Keep. King's Landing was not as impressive as Elisheva would have thought it to be. 

This land was depressing.

The disparity between the rich and the poor was staggering in King's Landing, the bowls of slop that peasants stuck their heads into and feasted on was a far cry from the exotic and lavish feasts you had been privy to at the Lannister/Baratheon table and certainly were not the exotic fruits that were even in easy reach of smallfolk back in Dorne.

"Yes, and we were doubtful Doran would believe it without any concrete proof of House Uller's scheming, Lord Tremond was working on it but clearly the plans have been...expedited. Lucky for us, he is a meticulous planner," said the mercenary shortly. "-and before you ask, Prince Trystane's safety was to be secured by Gavril Gargalen, if they aren't sailing from the Salt Shores as we speak then I suspect he's penning you a letter as we speak,"

 

Myrcella fell quiet. Elisheva was inscrutable to her.

 

She debated on the boat what to present to the court, before deciding that should they not be met by the appropriate welcoming guard, then she would need to be in full armour if they went through the city, and brigandine screamed noble, as it had her family's crest on it, but perhaps that wouldn't be best. They could not send a raven for their arrival either until they actually reached the coast, so Myrcella was exclusively Elisheva's responsibility in this strange land for a while. Thank the Gods that Lord Tremond had sent word to his loose allies in King's Landing - and that the raven had gotten to House Orlion before their boat did, so there were knights to meet them and escort them.

 

It was some small surprise that the blond actually recollected herself on the way to the Red Keep, and spoke to Elisheva instead of dispassionately ignoring her.

 

"Thank you," she said.

 

"For what?"

 

"Saving my life, I would suppose - and Trystane's, if what you say is true - and I suspect it is, you don't strike me as the kind of woman to lie meaninglessly like that," said Myrcella. Elisheva just grunted from behind her armour, and skulked beside her. Myrcella could not help but stare, and she was not the only one. Peasants did, the Knights of House Orlion did, then upon seeing the Red Keep near, so did the Kingsguard.

 

The court had expected her to be vibrant and full of colour in the way that only Dornes seemed to manage, only Sandor Clegane was known to wear an armour darker than the Kingsguard and be absent of cloak to signify not taking vows but the armour was as black as coal. Myrcella almost didn’t expect it to catch the sun and shine, because it looked like an all-swallowing shadow.

 

The helm was what everyone was staring at. Under the sun of her homeland such a shade of black would probably boil under the heat and be scorching to touch. The helm was a strange thing of beauty, not as outwardly elaborate the Hound's until you looked closer. The back, sides and top of her head were protected by the same dark metal as the rest of Elisheva’s armour, except that it was an odd shape - snakes - curled around and into each other, their many heads making up the coverage of her helm. The front however, was empty, and would have shown her face, if it did not instead, have some netted, wide chain mail that fell down to the neck of her hauberk, evoking the image of a veil, be it wedding or funerary.

 

Ser Jaime was the first to embrace Myrcella upon her entry to the Keep, followed by Cersei and even Tommen, who would not hear of her formality now he was king. Elisheva stood awkwardly watching, feeling a pang in her chest - wishing that Cersei had not hired her, so she could have her own moment like this back in Dorne, with her family. After Astapor, even the hue of the Red Keep reminded her of the ashy city and made her gut tighten when she entered. Astapor didn't have quite the same sense of foreboding as thinking of Yunkai did, but she doubted she would ever return to that place. At least, not for a very long time.

 

Flanking the crown was a rare sight, The Mountain in all of his impossible size leered to the right of the Iron Throne, casting a tall shadow over Tommen's seat. Elisheva stared -a  lot. The man had to reach eight ft in height and every part of him was muscle. He had a square, firm golden helm that betrayed only his cold, beady little eyes that stared through at Elisheva's veiled face.

 

"One of Orlion's?" - this was Jaime speaking now, addressing Elisheva.

 

The woman slowly - as was polite - removed her helm, feeling her tucked up hair come spilling out messily. She tucked the helm under her left arm and took a knee to Tommen, who felt awkward to have such a tall woman take a knee out of respect and still tower up at him from the throne. Cersei stared at her, seeing her sharp but beautiful features, swollen lipped and eyes a storming shade of grey that was darker than any Northman's she'd ever seen, but yet wedged in the face of an exotic creature. Her very aura in the court was a strange one - everyone present could feel it. Even Ser Gregor Clegane felt it. Out of Elisheva's peripheral vision she could a gleaming metal the same sooty shade as her own - of an almost as tall figure that was inches taller than her and even her biggest brother, Dyne, but not quite at Gregor's height. He was in a class of his own to be sure.

 

The Hound? It had to be.

 

Myrcella almost wondered if it was really her underneath until she had taken the helm off. Normally, it might have been a bit of a joke to see a lady in armour, and from the grace of her face, her long, black hair falling down in winding curly tufts down her armour - the court had expected a soft sort of voice. Instead, her voice was lilted and deep, unmistakably feminine, and ringing heavily of a foreign exoticness. Her eyes did not leave Cersei, who noticed how Ser Jaime was staring at her - of course, Elisheva had to be beautiful too - thought Cersei scornfully.

 

At least, not until the woman had spoke, and almost ignored Ser Jaime entirely if not for politeness's sake. Both were striking and beautiful, but you would think from Elisheva's stare that Cersei was the only one present. Elisheva had been warned in advance by Lord Tremond and her own mother. Cersei had more power than sense so in her presence, it was best to grease the wheel - and to attract as little negative attention as possible, simply follow the contract through until released and leave.

 

"If not for the unmistakable crown of gold on the Lady Myrcella and whom she so obviously takes after, I could easily be forgiven for thinking you to be the younger queen. Forgive this Dornish ignorance, thinking clearly is difficult in the face of pervasive beauty,"

 

Elisheva found the line distasteful, but it was pulled off with such a self-assured confidence that Cersei felt herself smirking before she could stop it. Ser Jaime noticed, and even felt a brief stab of being somewhat threatened by Elisheva's presence, even if Cersei possessed little interest to pursue other women, the Dorne was just so infuriatingly suave the second she had opened her mouth that the court was almost at a loss for response.

 

"Your err is forgiven," said Cersei stiffly, but her tone betrayed the fact she was preening under the compliment. "Thank you for returning my daughter so promptly, my trust in your family was not misplaced,"

 

Elisheva bowed her head, before King Tommen allowed her to rise fully to her height, which even made Jaime feel somewhat dwarfed.

 

"Lady Elisheva of the Scarwood, I assume?" this was Ser Jaime speaking now, and again, she simply nodded. "We were not expecting you to bring her back so quickly, did something happen?"

 

"The coup," said the woman "-they had some sort of plan involving the Lady Myrcella and Prince Trystane so my family and House Gargalen kept an evacuation plan on standby. We have known the Houses that are said to be the root cause of the Dornish unrest for many years. They are dangerous. Unpredictable, even." she took pause, very careful of her words, before simply saying it. She wasn't playing the greater game, after all. "-They call them the Targaryen's of Dorne, half are mad and the other half are worse. With the proximity of our lands and our ties with House Gargalen, none still alive remember just how deep the madness and the unpredictably runs in House Uller like House Brimsblood does, Your Grace."

 

Cersei raised a brow to the fact that Elisheva so casually dropped names like that, political ramifications would often make people warier to do so, but she addressed the court bluntly. It was...refreshing.

 

"There is going to be a meet with the Small Council," said Tommen, speaking up - finally. He was very new to this, and following the interhouse politics was difficult, and young though he was, he was by no means dumb, he could follow enough that he knew that Lord Oberyn was not going to be happy, and it was a shame, because he was such a nice man. Tommen didn't think Lord Oberyn had any reason to be nice to Lannisters after learning from Tywin the extent of what they had done in the war, and why their peace with House Martell was so important to maintain, but still, Lord Oberyn had been nothing but...good to him. Tommen had never met Doran Martell, only heard the stories - the cripple king, who was too smart for his own good, but even he could be sad that Doran was dead, if only because it would upset the Dornish lord who was staying in the Red Keep.

 

"-It was about Lord Oberyn taking King Doran's seat, and I suppose you would have the responsibility to tell him what happened," said the King, before he very earnestly bowed his head, and for a second, Elisheva wondered how he could really be a Lannister, when he was so babyfaced and pure of heart, enough to ache for Dorne's he'd never met on the other side of Westeros and do so, so earnestly. "I'm really sorry you have to do that,"

 

"Worry not my King," said Elisheva carefully.  "-The Viper is a strong man, he will cope, but I cannot imagine he would stay in King's Landing for very long after finding out, and I do not think it wise for me to sit on this information before this small council meeting. If I could be directed to where he is staying, I shall tell him myself."

 

"Of course, but aren't you tired? You came from very far away," he turned to his mother "-where can she stay?" and from the look in his eyes, Cersei could tell that he did not expect her to stay outside of the Keep for even a second.

 

"The Maidenvault should suffice," said Cersei, green eyes glittering over to her. "-Hound, escort her there once she's seen to Lord Oberyn, he should be in the gardens with my _other_ brother,"  When both Clegane's were present, she would simply call Sandor 'Hound' - and dismissed him summarily. Minya was hidden behind one of the Orlion men, she didn't understand Common well, and being in the presence of the royal court had her trembling. The moment Elisheva was dismissed, she had all but scooped up the small Lhazari in her arms and ushered her to walk at her side. She was too frightened to so much as look at the Hound. She found his burns rather disgusting.

 

Minya mumbled in Low Valyrian.

 

_'Why is his face like that?'_

 

Sandor could feel himself being talked about, and his agitation bubbled under his skin as he silently walked them through the Keep with a heavy scowl. The strange language was grating to him, but the Lhazari could not speak much else, though she understood a little more each day thanks to combined efforts. 

 

' _Who knows what his misfortune was. Hold my hand if he frightens you so,'_

 

Minya held her gauntlet-sporting hand.

 

"So," said Elisheva, breaking into Common suddenly.  "You are the one they call the Hound?"

 

The man just sort of grunted in response, until he seemed to remember that she was of higher noble standing than him, and cleared his throat to instead rumble out a "Yes," in a dark, gritty tone. Clearly, he was not much of a talker. Elisheva was shameless about studying his face, though not trying to be rude, pretending not to notice might have even been worse. The burns were just so egregious, it'd be like pretending a blind man could see.

 

There was a flash of bone at the disfigured end of his jaw, his 'good side' maintained a heavy brow, from this side profile she could see his nose was large and somewhat hooked. It suited his face though, she could not call it ugly, and he had high, good cheekbones, angular and perfect, he had certainly got the lion's share of the better looks. Where Gregor was shapeless and egg-like, Sandor was not. He was growing grizzly facial hair where he could, to lessen the severity of his face, but Gods...

 

How sad, if not for that egregious burn, women would be looking at him for all the right reasons, he was large and muscled, and a warrior - a good one at that, if he wasn't so feared and reviled - Elisheva was still looking at him that way regardless.

 

 "And so the larger one would be The Mountain," this wasn't so much a question as it was a statement of fact, but he nodded once.

 

"So - are you the older one or the younger one?" her tone was too familiar, and Sandor wasn't sure that he liked it, or why she was being so nosy, but perhaps she just didn't want to be rude, or they would be speaking Low Valyrian the whole time and perhaps about him, like his senses had told him. Her ranking was the only real compulsion he had to listen to her, but it seemed that she was intent on being as warm as she had been to Cersei - something which he was still getting over. Sailing over from Dorne and meeting the Queen-Mother for the first time, an ice sculpture of a woman, only to emit what he would call a flirt by way of greeting was certainly...risky. Everything about her was odd.

 

"Younger," Sandor grunted.

 

Elisheva let out a thoughtful hum, smiling weakly as they approached the beautiful gardens, seeing the distant figures of Oberyn and Tyrion Lannister sitting at the topiary rows with heavy jugs of alcohol.

 

"I suppose that makes you the puppy of the family," Elisheva chuckled weakly, and Sandor felt his face contort to one of slight distaste. He'd been called a lot of things, and reactively he responded to it as though it were an insult, but certainly he'd never been called a puppy, especially so warmly from such an odd stranger. "I have too many siblings to even try to keep up with whose the youngest anymore, I hope that perhaps my contract will be relieved soon, now the Lady Myrcella is safe. I may be able to sail back to Dorne with Lord Oberyn, if he will allow it,"

 

Sandor wasn't sure why she was saying these things, rambling away as they stood leering over at the gardens.

 

"I am stalling," said Elisheva bluntly, eyes cast over to Oberyn before sighing. Hopefully he wouldn't shoot down the messenger. There was no kind or soft way to deliver this news to Oberyn, but it had to be direct from someone rather than second hand, and an envoy from Dorne would at least be somewhat more personal.

 

She gave the Hound a brief side-eye, before clunking over in armour to the Red Viper and the Lannister dwarf.

 

"This is going to suck horse arse," she mumbled, feeling Minya squeeze her gauntlet harder.

 

 


	4. A Tale of Two Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clegane action afoot. Much of it from this point. Sorry for the prolonged wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Elisheva stuff will go into second person from here. I'll try not to make it too janky.

**KING'S LANDING**

**ELISHEVA BRIMSBLOOD**

 

 

 

There was silence for a while. Your eyes flitted to the imp – you had heard of the little adults, but you’d never actually seen one until just then. Somehow, it was a bit underwhelming – you had perhaps expected someone a bit more monstrous and not simply a shrunken down Lannister with a heavier brow. He wouldn’t be winning a beauty award any time soon but certainly you’d seen worse. Lord Oberyn had become serious – and the Red Viper was not known for being so pensive. He was a smart man, but not like his brother. He acted on passion a lot, he was dangerous when he struck and could wreak untold damage, but it was clear that even he knew that this was not the wisest choice when Dorne was so precarious.

 

The man looked ill. Sick. There was disbelief, but you looked at him with a fierce, unchallenged intensity and in that moment, Lord Oberyn had the keen sense that lesser men would have quailed.

 

“My Ellaria?” his voice betrayed how rattled he was, even if his facial expression did not.

 

“At the mercy of House Gargalen I would assume. Lord-Father has been colluding at the Salt Shore to try to keep Dorne as stable as possible. We heard the rumours but couldn’t confirm anything due to the root cause being so close to your inner circle. I would personally suggest that you orchestrate your return and surround yourself with a garrison of Orlion men while you’re here and set for the Sunspear as soon as you’re able,” you said. Apparently, brazenly telling men what to do didn’t seem too uncouth or unbecoming to you.  

 

“You…” he said, steadying his shaky voice, looking at you in that burning, critical way. In any other situation, he would have been admiring your face, but he seemed to be scrutinising. “-One of Talwar’s girls?”

 

Oberyn was not a small man, but you were a tall girl, and towered over him by an inch or two.

 

You gave him a brief nod, suddenly trying to stamp down this feeling of nervousness. He was intimidating by sheer virtue of the importance of his name, and despite all your experiences, part of you was hard wired to want to impress. You hated it.

 

“The dowager?” you felt Lord Tyrion’s eyes fall on you along with a few others. Minya too – who knew very little about you, even if she was learning more slowly with all the intimate time spent together, you were a puzzle to the girl at the best of times, but she remained loyal all the same and did not look at Lord Oberyn.

 

“Spinster,” you corrected. The word was not a kind one, but it was an honest one – a title most women would shun and steer away from. He raised a brow, and somehow besides the prevailing urge to be sick and waste through Westeros until he got to Dorne, the Viper found himself squeezing your hand.

 

“I couldn’t fathom why,”

 

You knew damn well he was being playful and acting in accordance to the reports about his wiles and habits, but your ears felt warm regardless, if only because his station was so much higher than yours.

You didn’t buy his line – of course Oberyn knew why – if he knew you as one of Talwar’s brood then he obviously knew every little thing about why you were quickly becoming one of the most terrifying women in all Dorne, so you dropped your hand from his grip and folded your arms across the soot coloured Coat of Plates and did not betray the girlish need to swoon.

 

“I appreciate what you’ve done, and whilst I cannot thank you for this news, you’ve done my family a service, as much as the Gargalens have, and it will be recognised. I promise you. I must ask – will you be looking for passage home? I assume your work is resolved. I would gladly have you in my company, I would dare say I trust your House name more than that of the Orlions, though they too have been good with my brother,” it was much more tenacious, and you were glad that Oberyn did not blindly trust in this dire time.

 

“I am the Lady Myrcella’s living shield,” you said after a moment, with such conviction that Oberyn was almost taken aback. “I cannot depart until they say my contract is complete. The contract comes first, though I yearn for my brothers and sisters. The contract must always come first. Regrettably, I must turn down your gracious offer, my Lord,”

 

Gods, every part of you wanted to go home, but King Tommen expected you to be staying in the Maidenvault, which meant that for whatever reason, your contract hadn’t been formally relieved. You hadn’t the choice, though if you thought your family were in danger for a second, you would have. If anything, they would be the driving force with House Gargalen to retaining Dornish stability.

 

Tyrion’s stare was intense now and Oberyn was already mobilising. You could not blame him. The world would be a mess and you were never more thankful for being hands off and stuck in Essos for most political machinations. All you cared about was for the gold to flow like wine in your family’s coffers and for House Brimsblood to be recognised for all that they were. As good as any other noble house – oh, and the actual flow of wine. And the women. And the men. Gods. You were a primal mess at the worst of times.

 

“What a masterful shutdown,” said Tyrion with some amusement, when you were only in his company, and the Hounds. A strange group, to be sure. “-though the man can certainly can pick his moments. Dorne is crumbling and yet he’s already securing someone for his bed chambers. There’s a reason we get on,” he chortled.

You did your best to keep the sneer off your face, but it didn’t quite work. The Lhazari hid behind you more, feeling the tension radiate from you in waves.

“I like them a little less polished, Lord Tyrion,” you said flatly. Lord Oberyn was entirely too perfect, there was nothing spoiled about him, nothing tainted in the way that you were that made you want to sink your teeth into him.

 

“-The state of Dorne is a far higher priority than the state of his sexual appetite anyway,” you were crude, and if the Hound was surprised, he managed to hide it.

 

“That it is, but I’d rather be making love when the world burns around me,” said Tyrion lazily, peering down his jug of ale to see how much was left in it. Any normal person would have found that statement to be in poor taste but the honesty was refreshing and as you searched for a way to dispute it, you found yourself…agreeing. Aggan sprang to mind. There was also Khal Charro himself. Vidar zo Yaziq – though that thought made your stomach churn – everything. You had felt your world crumble and yet you’d crawled atop them and started riding them like it would give you enough control to stop it all seeming hopeless. Even the Spider – Iraashi, all of it was aggression, need, lust and chaos balled up with a need to put the reins on something like you could control it all.

 

“I suppose that would be the time for it,” you said quietly.

 

Tyrion looked surprised, and gestured for you to join him, before throwing the Hound a cursory look.

 

“Go get more and join us, I’m not drinking alone and I won’t have you just standing there like a great big lumbering miserable dog,”

 

The Hound seemed all too happy to be ordered to slack off, and in truth, Tyrion could tell it was unintentionally cruel to leave him stuck guarding in the main court while Ser Gregor was hawking over Tommen.

 

Minya was perched on your lap as though it were the done thing for handmaidens to do. Tyrion didn’t know what to make of it, though you found yourself sliding an undercurrent of threat to your tone, barely reigning it in as he was a Lannister.

 

“If anyone were to look at her in a way she didn’t like, I would relieve their eyes from their faces, don’t think for a second that I wouldn’t,”

 

You had failed to protect Daynara, and then Zirha, and now – now you had the formal duty of Myrcella and of course, your Minya. Who had absolutely nobody. Just you.

 

“Oh I don’t,” Tyrion let out a small gargle of a burp from all the wine, choking his throat clear before grinning when the Hound came back with a case from the wine cellars.

 

“Cersei isn’t the only one who does their due diligence,” his small eyes flitted to you and Minya. “-winner of the Pentoshi Games, was it?”

 

You didn’t comment, you could almost detect incoming jibes in this dwarf’s ‘I know more than you’ tone that could only be so insufferable out of the mouth of a Lannister.

 

“Oh, what was it Lord Oberyn called you? Dowager?” he paused “-I think he meant Widowmaker,”

 

Minya hung onto certain words, but couldn’t follow everything, and in that moment, you were a bit glad for it. The more people knew about you, the less they wanted to know. The language barrier seemed to be doing you some favours.  You felt the Hound’s eyes on you occasionally, he didn’t seem to be much of a thinker or a game player, but by no means was anything going over his head like it was Minya’s.

 

“I care little for what people call me, anything that isn’t constructive is a waste of my time. Everyone who knows of me has some opinion, but opinions aren’t fact, so I take them in and let them go. He can call me whatever he pleases,”

 

“A healthy mindset I think,” said Tyrion after a moment. Of course, Tyrion would agree – being a dwarf and all and hearing all sorts of negative things. Somehow, sitting down and shooting the shit with a Lannister is not how you expected to spend time in King’s Landing.

 

“I trust you have been given a room in the Keep? I cannot imagine that bringing Myrcella home was by any means easy,”

 

Some things flashed to mind – the Khal, Astapor, Lhazar – going through Essos, quietly praying for peace through the Basilisk Isles – then Dorne last. Out of everything, the coup seemed almost miniscule. You could have laughed and almost did.

“Compared to some of the ordeals this past year, it was almost a pleasure,” you said wryly.

 

Now this, this had gotten the dwarf’s attention, and the Hound’s to be honest. If only because the fact you were becoming more and more tired was getting obvious.

 

Tyrion poured some freshly opened wine into his jug and passed it along dutifully.

 

“So what does a woman have to do to have such a forty-league stare?” he said bluntly, after a long moment.

 

You suddenly felt the weight of the day, the adjustment to being off sea, and out of Essos and even Dorne just wearing down your shoulders in that moment. It was as though Tyrion’s question had brought the gravity of all that had brought you to this point, to one immense head that threatened to crush you beneath it.

 

Astapor. Lhazar. Yunkai before that. Everything.

 

“I don’t know that there’s enough wine in Westeros let alone the Keep’s cellar to make my tongue anywhere loose enough to start with that,” you said, and it was an earnestly tired answer but also a way of skirting around the question. Tyrion was smart of course, and he could tell, still he was a bit disappointed.

 

“Forgive my forwardness,” he said after a moment.

 

“I’m very tired, Lord Tyrion,” you said, clearing your throat and trying to stop the conversation going any further. “May we be escorted to the Maidenvault to retire?” as though timed, Minya had let out a tiny yawn.

 

Tyrion gave a dismissive gesture to the Hound and jumped from his seat beside the lavender bushes and swayed slightly on his feet, before turning to leave.

 

“As you were then. I’ve a very specific bed to warm, Clegane – escort the ladies,”

 

That was that.

 

Finally, there would only be you and your Lhazari girl. The Hound had remained quiet and almost abrupt, but not rude, he seemed to remember his station at the very least. The Lhazari girl had remained mousey and did not talk. You didn't like that - you would have to get her comfortable with Westeros. Somehow. Maybe more time with Myrcella would help.

 

The Hound opened a large door which seemed larger than everybody present. There were quite a few rooms to the Maidenvault, but it seems he had some idea which ones were taken at the very least. No specific room had been made up for them and it was hardly a knight's job to make it so. His dismissal was lazy and he was being used as a grunt, but apparently you had been deemed of high enough value that you weren't shelfed to be guided by some spare handmaiden or lower rung passing servant. The fact the Hound hadn't been told which room to give, actually gave him some free reign. If he expected you to choose, he didn't say.

 

"Lady Maergery is in that room further down. I expect both of you want privacy. So somewhere here is fine," he had gestured down the corridor and you hid your surprise that the would-be queen was still sleeping so far from her soon to be hubby.

 

"It won't be made up for you. They weren't expecting. You could just pull a servant aside if you need for something. It isn't my job," clarified the Hound.

 

You wanted to ask why it was called the Maidenvault - it sounded like a place where you'd chain women to walls and do all manner of unsavoury things and said as much, the Hound actually snorted in your face - the reasoning couldn't be further from reality. Everyone knew the stories, including the Hound, who couldn't really avoid them.

 

 

"King Baelor's work. He confined his sisters here to stop them from giving him dirty thoughts," he was so blunt about it that you couldn't help but chew the inside of your cheeks to stop from smiling a bit. 

 

"Nothing to stop the sisters from having them," you commented. Sandor said nothing, just sort of grunting. He'd probably have to find the Orlion men and at the very least, make sure your things made it to the room you'd be staying in. You'd picked the closest to the entry way into the Maidenvault to stay in. "-and binding them all alone in the Maidenvault..."

 

"I'll tell you right now, if such a thing were to happen to me or my sisters, sooner or later we'd go mad from it all and jump the flesh of the first serving boy we find," you mused, before remembering you were in the Red Keep and that such blasé tone that it was not something nobility should utter, and if you wanted to be recognised as such, perhaps you should act the part. Still, it seemed the Hound - though surprised, didn't seem offended. Knights were often a brutish sort, nobility in the sense of pure rank but warriors at heart with the attitudes to match, and you'd seen warriors of every ilk. All shared the same sort of appreciation for bluntness, you found.

 

"Perhaps I shouldn't say such things, in Dorne, nobody cares who you make love to, even more so in Essos. I forget that most of Westeros isn't like that, and has their chastity belts wound far too tightly,"

 

"Don't know why you left," - ah! The Hound _speaks,_ success!   

 

"Honour. Duty. Necessity. The fun reasons, what can I say?" you narrowly avoided rolling your eyes. "-though tending the Lady Myrcella was the reason on paper, you were present for the true reason why. Dorne's in shambles. I may be better off here until the heat is off, even if I miss my family. I've been absent for years, I'd returned for all of two weeks before duty demanded me to the Sunspear and now here,"

 

Tiredness was loosening your tongue, and so had the drinking prior. Upon walking into the room with Minya, you were greeted with the sight of a modest double bed in the large room. There was an end table, a musty rug and several unlit candles strewn about. There was a large chest at the end of the bed that could store some valuables and a humble oak dresser - certainly it was bigger than the bedroom you had in Scarwood Keep. Minya did not hold in her gasp, her eyes trying to take in the size of it all. The Hound stood in the door, it took you a moment to realise he was waiting for dismissal, and from the look on his face, he didn't particularly want to hang around longer than he had to.

 

"Forgive a whining woman. It's been a long travel," you sighed, and felt the need to lighten up a bit. "-I did enjoy drinking with you, and Lord Tyrion, I would hope it won't be the last. I'm a tad irritable when tired, but resting generally makes women more agreeable, along with four caskets of wine and a dirty novel," 

 

The Hound stared at you.

 

"I do hope you're taking notes," you snorted "-anyway, I will assume my things are being taken care of, which should take care of the last thing on the list - and assure a decent sleep. So goodnight, that should be all," 

 

Mulling it over, you took one look at the taciturn man, "-Puppy," you added, watching the flash in his eyes when you said it.

 

He turned away, and finally, you were alone.

 

* * *

 

 

Minya complained that the bed was too big, that the draft kept coming in, that she needed to be closer - and so she was. Curing her bad dreams seemed to only need your presence. Your body. You seemed to give her more security than anything in the world could give her. You were all she had left, closer than family. Survivors. Bound together by something horrible. You'd experienced many horrible things, much of them alone, some of them with family - there was much that Minya wouldn't know and shouldn't know, but this - this forged some kind of a reason for you to be together. Like this.

 

She held you when you had a scream on the tip of your tongue, choking and struggling for air when you got up in the middle of the night. She didn't know how to comfort you but she wanted to. She wanted to give you whatever it was that Iraashi gave you - even though she was just a girl, hardly a woman grown even if the world said that she was one. You didn't know what to make of it when she started nervously pulling down her dress. She didn't have much clothes except for what you shared and what you had brought her that had gotten mixed in with your things when the Gargalens had been preparing your boat.

 

A servant had complained of a hissing box - even Olive had been brought along, but for all intents and purposes, you were feeding Minya, clothing her and now - now she was feebly trying to give something back. Only, Minya didn't know what two women even did with each other. She did not expect to see such a predatory nature - to have you crawling over her and massaging her thighs, making noises leave the Maidenvault that shouldn't be happening in a place free of sexual desires and yet it was. Maybe that's why she tasted sweeter, why it was so much better. You told her what to do with her hands - you weren't sure that she liked the sensation of being inside of someone else so much as she preferred you servicing her with your tongue.

 

Your excellent,  _excellent_ tongue.

 

You took too much relief out of sex - like a man would, but it was something. It still wasn't quite what you were looking for, it wasn't that wall to wall feeling of a man's heartbeat throbbing down in his crotch, filling you and drowning all of your senses. It wasn't Aggan. Khal Charro. It wasn't N'jar. It wasn't the others you'd had. It was too nice. Too soft. Too pure.  

 

Minya struggled to look at you the next day, and Myrcella craved her company, if only to teach her more Common. It seemed Myrcella really shined when trying to teach.

 

The contract was still going, at least, until it was formally rescinded. Collecting payment was done from the Master of Coin - apparently directly from the Lannister treasury which was now synonymous with the Crown's, which Robert Baratheon had managed to plunder into inconsolable debt. 

 

"I'm staying?" you said - you weren't quite sure you'd heard Cersei correctly.

 

"At least until the coronation. I think my daughter would appreciate not having a man hawking over her for the duration of the event, and I'm sure House Brimsblood would appreciate a seat at such an event," in a way, you had no choice, but damn if Cersei wasn't as smooth as butter about it, pushing exactly the right buttons. 

 

' _You're moving up in the world, girl.'_ was basically what she was saying. 

 

At least here, you could ask for permission to use the training grounds - it seemed inappropriate, at least, Jaime thought that it was. He didn't seem to want to let you use it, but there would be times when the Kingsguard weren't using the grounds, in which case there was no actual harm in it. He didn't seem to be thrilled with the idea, nor did he seem to respect it much, but you didn't need Ser Jaime Lannister to respect you. You didn't need men's respect - they needed  _yours._

 

You were finally in appropriate court dress, but appropriate for Dorne, lesser so the rest of Westeros. 

 

It was white that you didn't often wear, clashing against very dark green-black, and gold thread around the embroidery. You didn't have much of your jewellery, but there were necklaces that plunged down the front of your exposed neckline, hanging wooden beads painted a beautiful array of colours. It looked out of place on the lightly breezy day, and you were quietly stalking behind Ser Jaime, watching him getting ready to corral the men.

 

Your eyes wandered over to the men you recognised. You saw some clumsier form from the others, but savage movements in their broad arms. 

 

There were lines of wooden training dolls and archery targets, though the targets were largely unused, there was definitely sweat flying. What a good way to start the morning - watching men get sweaty in armour and start beating the brains out of each other. They were in their golden armour, absolutely hammering each other, avoiding the head of course, but it was hard to miss the man who was eight ft in height and decimating everything in his path. Leaning against a post, you had the perfect vantage point really, near an unused target.

 

"Waiting for ground use or just watching?" asked Ser Jaime, finally, you couldn't tell if you'd irritated him with your presence, or if he truly didn't care and was just curious. He had an inscrutable kind of face -like there was more going on underneath. Most people were like that, but with Ser Jaime it just seemed more obvious, in a way you couldn't pinpoint.

 

"Just watching the view. I'm not dressed to practice," glancing over at the men "-Why, do you get self-conscious with a woman watching?" tone slightly rising, a crooked smirk on your face. This got some attention - it was now obvious to you that perhaps one or two of them had been conscious of it, and might have been playing up a little as you watched. Maybe that was the source of Ser Jaime's annoyance. 

 

"I don't, some might,"

 

Then - then the atmosphere broke, as a stocky figure made it's way to you. 

 

"Well, bend me over - they told me a Brimsblood were here but I didn't think it were  _you,"_

 

His voice was strong and warm, but it didn't sound welcoming, more shocked. You couldn't see who it was - the helmet was on. But the tone was strangely familiar in a way you couldn't identify. It had been too long and too many things had changed, too many years had passed and too much shit had gone down. Some things just seemed a lifetime away from you, and so did this man.

 

"You two know each other?" 

 

"I'm supposed to know you?" you couldn't help but let it slip, pointedly staring into his eyes poking through the helmet. The broad man took off his helmet and you were faced with a strong-jawed, large-chinned man, with long tufts of brown hair that frizzed out down his neck and back. That chin - of course, that you could recognise instantly, but it definitely wasn't Lord Roland - but it looked like one of his ilk for sure.

 

"I don't know whether I should be hurt or not," scoffed the man. You walked up to him, closing the small distance, giving him a scrutinising look which might have been a bit rude to the outsider looking on. You folded your arms beneath your hefty chest and stared across the man who almost matched you for height. Almost. 

 

"...Crakehall?" you said lamely.

 

"Which one?" he pressed, smirking now - knowing you were struggling. He looked at you like he recognised you, but you absolutely could not recognise him - and you met much of Roland's kind, right? "-If you don't get it, I'll be well and truly wounded," he pressed a hand to his heart on his chest plate.

 

You leered over at him now, your noses could have brushed, but you were looking at him like you were glaring through him. Any other man might not have endured it, but he was just grinning at you now - somewhat idiotically.

 

".....Fuck me,  _Lyle?"_

 

You couldn't help the words that preceded it, and Jaime was surprised at your tongue, outside of court - the smooth silvery tones that had left your mouth in refined manner were replaced with guttural swears, but the knight didn't seem surprised, instead, he let out a deep belly laugh.

 

"Lucky me, my once-betrothed remembers me! Yes, we know each other - sort of. It's been - well, Gods, enough years for you to grow up, hasn't it?" said Lyle, and he was looking at you now, gesturing to the fact that you were so obviously a woman grown and not just a young girl.

 

You just kept clipped, it was comforting to see someone you knew even slightly in King's Landing, but the betrothal felt like lifetimes ago, because in a way it was. It was before so much of the things that had made you, you - and tainted you, ruined you, had occurred. Lyle had been before everything. You were halfway normal back then. Still a brute of a child, the Tongue-Stealer - but that's all you were. You hadn't been ruined by everything. Emilar hadn't died. Nobody had died. You were still young and vibrant. Twelve. He'd been nineteen and refusing women left and right, intent on being a knight.  He had been nineteen, you were a last hope, the lower wrung house that Lord Roland had befriended when witnessing the Brimsbloods at the Tourney of the Twelve. You would have been engaged for a while, betrothal would have let you catch up until he felt you fully a woman, but you could have been married and raised your House beyond their station so quickly. You just hadn't liked the idea so much yourself, in fact, you'd managed to push him over, and declare him odorous before finding any reason to leave Crakehall Keep.

 

Gods you were still.... okay... back then.

 

Now - what was it Tyrion had said? 

 

You were a woman with a forty-league stare, and the kind of look Lyle was giving you - maybe he was seeing it too. Suddenly you were paranoid about it, secretly. Could he see how horrible you'd become now, just by seeing your sins hovering over your head, like a rain cloud?

 

"Yeah," you said weakly.

 

"You've changed a lot," said Lyle after a moment - who had heard bits and pieces but whenever he heard about you, you were "somewhere in Essos," - then you won some thing in Pentos, but besides that, he had heard slim to nothing.

 

"I have breasts now," you said bluntly - trying to keep it light. He laughed again - and so did Jaime who you had forgotten were there.

 

"I suppose I've changed a lot too, you could barely recognise me, I hope I'm not still - what was it you said? 'Smelly' ? Real mature of you by the way, at least you've aged beautifully," he said, you almost cringed - this many years on and he still remembered you pushing him into the mud and running away from Crakehall Keep? Embarrassing, and he seemed to know it was just as bad for you as it was for him, with hindsight he found it hilarious, you on the other hand felt like a graceless twat and it showed because your cheeks were colouring.

 

"Shut up, I was twelve and I thought you smelled like armpits. You  _have_ changed," you mused aloud, still pressing into his space "-now you're smelly  _and_ old," 

 

Men were laughing, Kingsguard had stopped to see the pretty woman get up into Strongboar's business - and when you learned that was his nickname, you just guffawed - and said that you could think of plenty of other names to call him. It was all in jest, all these years and you were still shitting on each other after all this time like it was just natural.

 

Lyle was a bit annoyed but not the kind that was any kind of severe, instead he just looked put-out, and brushed some of his hair out of his face as folded his arms to his chest. 

 

"Lady Elisheva, this side of you isn't cute at all,"

 

"Good," you said sharply.

 

"I shall leave you to - well - whatever excuse for sparring you called that performance," you wrinkled your nose at him, and saw the look of irritation flash on Strongboar's face. You were baiting him and you weren't sure - maybe because it came so naturally, and he was the only one you knew on some level. This was how you were friendly, though you could feel the annoyance almost becoming tangible.

 

"And what do you know of battle? This isn't the Pentoshi Games,"

 

You couldn't help the dangerous look that flashed in your face when he said that, and for a second, Lyle wondered if he'd well and truly fucked up. The blood of the Rhoynish ran fiercely in your House and for a moment, he was intoxicated by the kind of expressiveness your features and darker pallor held. 

 

"I've seen more battle than you'd think, in fact, if you don't mind being beaten by a woman, you can see just how much I've grown! Here. Training grounds. Early. I can always stand to add a little more red in my ledger," 

 

Strongboar scoffed, until he realised you were serious.

 

"Do you need me to throw down a gauntlet and use your Knight's Code? I'm challenging you to a friendly match, but of course - if you can't handle it. That's fine,"

 

"I can handle it, there's just little victory in beating a woman," he said, and the worst part was that he wasn't trying to be insulting, he seemed to really believe that he was acting in earnest kindness. Men around him agreed, Jaime too - but to a lesser extent. You couldn't help but close the small gap even more and if lightning could have struck right then, every single one of them would have believe it would have been caused purely from the look of irritation mixed with insult on your face.

 

"Your ilk made that mistake in the Tourney of the Twelve and we both know how that turned out," indeed, it was what made Lord Roland Crakehall respect them as a House at all, enough to entertain their union to begin with. "I'm sure your father would love to hear that you couldn't handle a friendly challenge from one of Lord Talwar's brood,"

 

"Just do it," - Jaime snapped, having seen enough of the two bickering. The tension was only mounting and he didn't need his men getting distracted for much longer, even if it was very, very entertaining to watch. "Lady Elisheva knows what she's asking, and she is paid under Lannister employ for the virtue of her strength. As long as you don't kill each other, you can use the grounds tomorrow."

 

And that was that.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Blood of the Rhoyne had not disappeared from Dorne. House Brimsblood was living proof. That Essosi beauty had never faded, and anything diluted into it that caused the ferocity of your grey eyes that each of your brood shared was merely amplified by the overpoweringly Rhoyne features. Of course - Cersei thought bitterly, you were beautiful in your own strange way, a walking set of contradictions. Hard muscled arms and legs, but Gods could you fill out a dress with all of your feminine curve. With enough drink, it was easy to tell why you were called all of the things that you were. 

 

"Nymeria reborn!" said Tyrion drunkenly, between curses, when drinking with Jaime that night. "I'd be careful around that one. I should like to watch this match with Strongboar though, I may even put some money on it,"

 

Jaime shook his head at Tyrion's behaviour, but expected nothing less.

 

Strongboar wasn't the only one ogling at her, he noticed. He paid attention to his men, quite a few were admiring the hips, and he couldn't blame them - they were fit to bare children and then some. It was the fact that the one who practised in his own space, Ser Gregor, taking pause - that he had taken notice of. He hoped he wouldn't have to remind the great beast of his place, because she was a guest of the Lannisters as well as in their employ, he also suspected that they as a House, were going to become of much more importance in Dorne - the last thing he needed was some brute ruining it all.

 

When he looked at the man, he couldn't help but think of what he'd done to Pretty Pia, and the horrors he'd encountered at Harrenhal. It was definitely Tywin's decision to keep him around, because in his hard of hearts, Jaime wasn't sure just how much a man like Gregor deserved to live, even with all his House had done for theirs and his undying loyalty.

 

He was an invaluable weapon, but beyond that, Jaime couldn't muster any liking for the Mountain at all, so he just may have to intervene. What he didn't count on was for you to stick around during training, and notice Ser Gregor in the same way. You had sat to one side and never took your eyes off the bigger men in his Kingsguard. The look was critical as it was openly lecherous - he didn't know what to make of it, truly.

 

That was the man.

 

He raped the Dornish queen with the children's blood on his hands. Then he killed her.

 

He slammed their heads to the walls of their nursery.

 

He raped and pillaged his way through the Riverlands.

 

It was all well known in Dorne, unconfirmed, but well known. It was all of Dorne wanted Ser Gregor Clegane dead, and none more so than House Martell.

 

Dorne wanted him dead. You wanted him in your bed. You had to taste someone worse than yourself. The only person that you could think of that could remind you of your humanity while being so far past it was that monster of a man, whose tremendous reach with his sword alone could behead two training dolls in one fell swoop.

 

There was no reasoning, no logic, no end game at the time.

 

You just wanted that big, eight ft bastard. Men would have any woman they pleased just because they liked how her breasts looked through her clothes and needn't explain themselves, why did you have to?

 

He’s evil, he’s brutish, he’s a raper, he’s a pillager, he’s – God’s he was like the last two. Aggan mixed with Khal Charro but several leagues worse. The worst of the worst. A conquest for the ages. You watched the Kingsguard training for a while, there was a lead up to the coronation. Minya didn’t understand it, nobody did. Well, the lecherous Lord Tyrion did, but even he didn’t understand the methods to your madness. Jaime himself was a better pick, handsome at the very least, he could make legions of panties drop in seconds but not yours.

 

You were staring at the Kingsguard like they were fruits to pick, honestly, it was the way men stared at women in brothels or Hells, even on the streets sometimes.

 

“What would I have to do, to get the strongest, nastiest, toughest of your men sentenced to the Maidenvault – my chambers, specifically?” was the question asked internally. Externally with enough alcohol in your system. Tyrion had nearly choked. You didn't blame him, it had come from nowhere, after addressing the friendly vitriol exchanged between you and your previous betrothed, Ser Lyle Crakehall.

 

“Your existing contract with the Lannisters put you in some protection for however much Ser Gregor listens to us, his rages are rather infamous and I wouldn’t test it if I were you, but if you were so suicidally inclined, now would be the time to act on the urge,” said Tyrion, over wine.

 

“You’re stunning though, even with the…the muscles, I don’t know why you’d pick him, excuse me girl but have you seen my brother? Considered one of the most handsome men in Westeros? You haven’t looked at him once, but you’re picking men out like berries from a field,” chortled Tyrion.

 

“I don’t like them polished,” you said after a moment “-I’m not polished.”

 

“How so?”

 

“You said you did your reading, are you lying?” you sighed “-you just want to hear what I think of myself, I think,”

 

“I don’t know what to make of you, so yes, smart girl,” praised the dwarf in a manner that seemed almost patronising even if he did not truly mean to be.

 

“I want to go through them the way you go through whores, is that so wrong, or do I need to debate it?” did it have to be? Since when did men ever have to justify themselves? “I am, regrettably, not like my sisters, Tybera or Oraya, my mother did her best to instil some womanly habits to our kind of lifestyle but I will never be like the ladies at court you are surrounded by, and I know this,”

 

“Does it bother you?”

 

“Sometimes,” you said “-but the cost of strength is sacrifice, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less woman, just as you are no less of a man, as a dwarf,”

 

“And you have needs,” Tyrion’s lip quirked “-a hunger even – we all do. All of us animals do. Women may pretend to be purer than most, but you’re as puerile as the rest of us, wanting to rut in the dirt, make love till the sun comes up. Not in the same way – the triggers are different but the hunger runs the same, does it not?”

 

You wondered how much of a whoremonger he was, to speak so confidently about female urges as though he were an authority on it.

 

“You must have a big hunger,” he said after a moment, and you weren’t sure if he was calling you wanton or making a crack on Gregor’s size or both. He wouldn’t be surprised if you listed off in your head the men you wanted to bed in order.

 

“Think of it what you will but it runs deeper than the Summer Seas and could drown all of Dorne,” you tilted your head a bit “-I would say it runs in my family thicker than in most Dornish. We do tend to birth in large number too.”

 

“Just don’t bite off more than you can handle,” was his sage advice “-the only one I could say the Mountain truly respects, even more so than my brother, would be our father, and my sister thirdly, with me somewhere barely existent on the hierarchy of importance,”

 

You needed to forget. You needed that release - carnally you enjoyed men who were rough and as bad as you perceived yourself to be. You needed to cast aside Yunkai, Lhazar and Astapor. The Red Waste. Everything. The men's company you enjoyed carnally or otherwise were rough and tumble soldiers or well-worn men of the greater world. It was ones like Gregor Clegane that reminded you there was still somebody worse than you. Somebody that you could feel good about hurting, about dominating.

 

The danger helped. You didn't fear death in the way that you should. In a fight or flight, you would deign to fight like you wanted to live, but in the long-term, you were so much more blase - ready to fall on your sword for any one of your family or friends. You courted the Stranger. Death and you had a strange relationship, and the idea of the man losing control and hurting you didn't hold the same power over you as it did everyone else.

 

"I'll find a way," you settled on, but instead, Tyrion waved it off, seeing the deep lust in your eyes of which he couldn't fully fathom.

 

"I wouldn't worry about that," the dwarf looked up at you "-but you'll owe me," a friendly grin cracking onto his face.

 

* * *

 

 

You wondered what he meant, until you retreated to the Maidenvault that night. Minya was apparently with Myrcella again, attending her in your place at her request - you weren't insulted, you were there to be a bodyguard more than a handmaiden anyway. It did make the bed seem larger though. Larger and colder. There was a small hissing sound coming from the pile of cases by the chest at the foot of the bed - a large, holed box revealed your snake, Olive, curled up on himself a few times over, both of his heads slowly awakening.

 

A wave of relief hit you. You forgot how much you actually loved this damn snake.

 

You lifted the snake out lovingly and felt him automatically start to curl around your biceps. A content sigh left you. At least now, you wouldn't be totally alone.

 

 "Stupid Crakehall," you mumbled, brushing one of Olive's heads with the flat of your thumb "-he knows nothing," 

 

The snake merely curled some more around your arm, soaking in your heat. For a while, you two remained like this, until he started to slither around to your dresser, seeking the warmth of the nearby candle instead.

 

You missed Minya. She may not even come back to your bed if Myrcella wears her out enough. Laying back on the bed in your dress, you stared up at the canopy - thinking. Maybe you should have damned the consequence and taken the ship back to Dorne with Oberyn, but then you wouldn't have been able to collect your payment without arousing suspicion, you supposed. It wasn't that you particularly needed release in that moment, but in any other high situation, you would have gone through every rough man and every soft breasted woman from Braavos to Volantis, to Dorne and even the Grassy Vale.

 

Nothing changed. You just slept a lot less unless alcohol was involved. Thankfully, it ran like water in King's Landing, and you had a tall necked bottle on your dresser. Gods only knew how long it'd been there, it had gathered some dust and would probably be disgustingly warm, but you couldn't complain about well-aged wine. 

 

How sad. Sitting here, drinking alone - albeit with Olive, but still alone. You contemplated slipping in some of his paralytic venom, in small doses, it didn't kill, the sensation was almost pleasurable, and it could send you to sleep once the effect wore off, it just made one somewhat vulnerable.

 

Downing a glass, you dripped some of Olive's venom into the nozzle of the glass and were about to pour yourself the cup that would knock you flat for the night, until you heard several loud knocks, and the door creak open unwillingly, simply from the sheer force exerted.

 

The tip of a tall shadow fell over to the edge of your bed, making you glance up and begin straightening out the wrinkles in your dress out of habit. It might be an Orlion with more of your things, you rationed, until your tipsy stare settled on the source of disruption.

 

A gold clad figure took up the doorway entirely in both height and width in a manner that even outdid Lord Talwar's humongous form.

 

For a second, you didn't dare breathe.

 

Even with the helmet, there was only one person that could be, and none struck pure terror into the hearts of their enemies like this imposing, bestial man. The squared helmet remained firmly on his head, but even with it on, there was only one person of such impossible size that it could be. The Mountain was there, standing in the Maidenvault, leering through the door, quiet - barely announcing his presence of his loud knocks, and simply awaiting order. Why was he here...? Did the imp...? He must have, he didn't have any of your things, like the Orlion men had.

 

"Remove your helmet," your tone took on a natural one of command, even if it sounded more self-assured than you were.

 

This was a horrible idea, but you were already in too deep.

 

You could dismiss him, and send him away confused - you realised, until you remembered that not a few seconds prior, you had inwardly complained of your loneliness without Minya in your bed and now you were no longer alone, you were contemplating sending him away.

 

The Mountain removed his helm and held it under his arm - giving you an opportunity to get a good look at his face. It was rather round, soft where Sandor wasn't, but more facial hair, and hair cut grizzly and short. His lips were thin, and his eyes were small and cold, smaller than Sandor's, but both the same shade of pale grey, much paler than your own. You had to wonder if House Clegane had some Northern blood in them - they had to, with eyes like that. Your family's came from your Mother, who'd been a bastard that hailed originally from the region of the Neck, close to the border of the true North lands. He wasn't as harder featured as his brother, but they both had the same prominent nose, though his round face lacked the sharpness to make it less severe. Not ugly, but not a looker. Someone with any other body, you might have overlooked - no, you were sure you would.

 

The fact that you may be in a tremendous amount of danger didn't really seem to matter after everything that happened.

 

 "Do you know why you're here?" getting straight to the point, gently setting Olive to the large, air-holed box he'd come from so that he could rest some more, clearly not used to being awake when you were after travelling so long in a box.

 

The Mountain said nothing at first, until you strode a few steps forward and persisted to crane your head up and maintain eye content, your own face betraying nothing of your intentions.

 

"Lord Tyrion sent me," his voice was like stone shattering, you could already feel it filling the generously sized room, and he hadn't even raised it much. 

 

You didn't react. Of course, you could tell that the man was barely stopping himself from calling him 'the imp'. Nodding, you motioned him forward out of the doorway, he seemed hesitant but did not falter, taking a bold step into the room. You breezed past his tremendous arm, and looked out behind his lumbering form, apparently not caring that you had your back to such a terrifying man - before pulling the large door shut when making sure there was nobody else around.

 

"Did he tell you why?" you said, taking a few steps back, the scene was set.

 

You were standing in a room that suddenly felt so much smaller with him in it, checked for people outside, and shut the door. It was seen as unconscionable to have a man in your room and the door shut, especially in a place as naturally chaste as the Maidenvault was intended to be, but neither of you seemed to care much for court manners it seemed. It defied most the rules, if the door was to be shut on such a thing, there had to be someone present, like a member of family, in other cases, one could assume anything was going on behind the door. 

 

It never stopped the best of them, though - even Cersei Lannister herself.

 

"No," The Mountain half-snapped, there was confusion on his face.

 

Ah.

 

Now, there were a few things you could do.

 

You could just slip the dress down your shoulders and wiggle out of it without a single word being exchanged, which is something you had done in the past, or you could at least...

 

 _This one. Really? Did you learn nothing from the Bolton bastard? He's cut from the same kind of cloth -_ you could just hear your father if he knew what you were planning to do. Reaching for another glass, you poured some of the remaining wine in, and pro-offered it to Ser Gregor, who looked down at you, brow furrowed in confusion. He wasn't the sharpest tool, but even a smart man might have been confused right then.

 

"I've been drinking for hours and I'm not taking another sip alone, unless you've suddenly become a Septon, I would ask you to join me," you said in a blase tone, only when it was at his lips, did you remember that you'd slipped in some of Olive's natural fang secretion into the neck, and the man's eyes widened, as the hit of it went straight to his head first. He almost cursed, and barely stopped himself.

 

"Strong, isn't it? Might have been around since King Aerys, it came with the room," 

 

You moved backwards without taking your eyes off of him, before daintily sitting on the small chair by the end table which would not possibly hold Ser Gregor without shattering underneath him, so instead, you gestured to the bed which was a small stride or two away.

 

"Please, do sit down. It's not rude to sit on a Lady's bed if she invites you to," you said, a crooked smile forming. It was those words that set the tone. He raised an eyebrow at you when you said that, it didn't seem he was much of a talker, but if he was annoyed at being sent somewhere and not told why, the wine seemed to erase it, as did the look that was slowly bleeding onto your face.

 

Ser Gregor moved wordlessly to the bed and sat down, making the mattress dip predictably under both the weight of himself, and his armour, which was made so large and so thick that no other living man in Westeros could possibly move under it, let alone fight in it. Truly, he was a force to be reckoned with by virtue of his size alone, but he was also a good soldier - everyone had to be good at something - and both of those things put together were deadly. 

 

 _''Too bad his tremendous size was used mostly in the bullying of smallfolk, the raping of women, and the murder of babies'_ \- your own vindictive thought berated you, only to bring forth uncomfortable images of Lhazar, silencing your own dissent.

 

Monsters deserve monsters.

 

"Are you feeling a little loose and like you don't want to move much?" you said, lazily draping your head to one side, as though you had felt the same thing from the wine.

 

"Aye," said Ser Gregor stiffly, which was a signal for you to go in for the kill, he watched as your stare turned into a cool, half-lidded, predatory one that would have made any lesser being squirm. A hand went lazily to scratch the back of your neck, only for you to reach up, and take out some of the snake-shaped pins that kept your hair in delicate place. The heaviness hit your back first, hair rolling all the way down until you could feel it touching the back of the chair too. Khal Charro had insisted on you keeping it long, and this was the longest it had ever been, in true Dothraki tradition. You tossed the clips onto the table and saw his eyes follow your every motion since you had let down your hair. 

 

The poor dumb fool still hadn't figured out why he was here - was he too stupid to know he was being seduced?

 

 

"Then take off your armour," your tone, being Dornish, was naturally dulcet, but now there was an undercurrent of lust that Ser Gregor wasn't sure had ever been directed to him in his entire life, not even from his previous two wives. It hit him like a lance to the head, apparently, all of the reasons he had for being summoned to your room - and this one hadn't come up. He didn't immediately move to do so, but was going to put the cup down, only for it to slip through his meaty, stiffening fingers, making him scowl. One wine shouldn't be enough to do that, no matter how strong it was.

 

"There's a bit of Dornish taste to it, they use snake venom, it stiffens you up until your body gets used to it, it goes in to our strongwine, forgive me, I forget that the upper Westerosi do not have our alcoholic temperament," 

 

You weren't sorry.

 

Anything you did to Ser Gregor paled in comparison to everything you'd done before, and if ever there was a man who was to deserve feeling helpless, it'd be this one.

 

Nonetheless, you took some small sadistic enjoyment in watching him struggle to get his bracers off as his body was slowly slowing down, and stiffening up. If he was annoyed about the venom, his mind couldn't compute it, because all of the blood was very quickly rushing southward.

 

The bracers landed on the floor with a heavy thud, and finally, you rose, and started to help. He didn't bother keeping the look of surprise off his face that you knew your way around armour far better than even his own squire, Joss Stillwood, and had the tremendous strength to at least be able to lift it off of his body and cast it aside until he was only in his cottons. He was still heavy with sweat from training - under his biceps and around his neck where the chest plating began. He looked a bit pathetic, you thought.

 

You didn't feel even slightly bad about pushing him onto the back on the bed and stripping out of the dress. 

 

" _I want to taste the Mountain,_ " you could barely recognise your own voice, it sounded deeper, brassier, headier - maybe even strangely angry for reasons you couldn't quite pinpoint.

 

Now there could be no confusion, understanding was dawning in his eyes. He heard the sound of ripping before he could stop it - a sound that usually he was making, tearing through some maiden's clothes - Pretty Pia - the Aleman's daughter, the countless faces of smallfolk women. If it had dawned on him, the irony might have been a little funny. He didn't expect the curves and muscle of your peculiar but beautiful body to be all that filled his vision. Suddenly, he couldn't think, not that he did much of it, but the fragile grip on anger and frustration at having not been able to handle the measly cup of wine had been all but forgotten.

 

He was hard before you touched him.

 

Looking down on him, you saw his large, muscled torso taking up most of the bed, and his chest rising and falling steadily. You ignored his face, hands tracing down his vast expanse of chest, fingers dipping into the indents of his muscles, it was languid and almost appreciative. Ser Gregor was unsure if he had ever quite been touched like that, he just wants it on his cock instead, and is infuriated by the fact he cant grab you with his tremendous hands and forcefully wedge you onto him and fuck you raw until your insides tore.

 

He gasped sharply when he felt something being tied around him - his intimate area - a confused curse leaving his slurring, half-paralysed mouth before he could stop it.

 

" _Tae fuck?_ " was all he got out as he felt a soft material constraining around his balls, and the very sudden wetness that swallowed him whole. A tingle shot down his spine that he couldn't control, the only thing he could liken it to was the sensation of first reaching down and discovering himself before he was a man grown, suddenly overcome by all of his animal sensations. Usually, he dumped it into the nearest woman, whore or not, and simply moved on, but now he had no choices. He was sure he would have thrusted up into the heavens themselves if it meant getting that  - _hot, warm, wet -_ to move around his cock.

 

You shivered just a bit, feeling a sensation of very suddenly having a warm thing inside of you, and Ser Gregor was borderline unused to being greeted with the sensation of wetness, at least, to this extremity, usually it was tight and dry and only became smooth after vigorous thrusting, until they'd gradually become just wet enough to stop themselves screaming in pain, or if blood ruptured, and he was merely fucking a girl like a ragdoll, until she could move and wriggle no more.

 

His view of the ceiling was becoming blurred, and he might have been ashamed of reaching a sensation of orgasm so soon until he felt a pain and an ache in his crotch that made him snarl out, until he _felt_ your body vibrating around his cock as you chuckled - an anger spiked up - were you laughing at  _him?_

 

The smug sort of look radiated from your features as you slowly lowered your chest down, hands on either one of Ser Gregor's massive shoulders, looking up at him with a small smirk - the predatory look from earlier now at its maximal apex.

 

 _"This isn't anywhere close to over yet, Gregor,"_ if he had been anyone else, you might have felt a flash of mercy from the keening need that was now showing on his deliciously red face.

 

Your fingers began to dig into him with purpose, you didn't care much if it caused him pain, you were gently bobbing yourself on his cock like you weren't riding a man who in any other situation, would tear you apart with his bare hands if inclined.

 

_'Raper.'_

 

You remembered _Jargo_ , and the nails dug in harder, he wasn't the first type of man to try to simply have you where you lay either.

 

_Ser Urmen._

 

 

_'He kills the weak.'_

 

 

You rode him a little harder, hearing him gasp more, his fingers very barely being able to twitch, but twitching regardless.

 

' _You ate the weak' -_ your mind rebutted snarkily.

 

You could feel yourself edging dreadfully close - the wetness soaking him down to the base of his cock and even still, you slowed down - this wasn't going to end - you shivered feeling him drip some straggling bit of precum into you, and tightened the material around his genitals, causing him discomfort.

 

_'He's a monster..! I'm fucking a monster!'_

 

**'You're a monster.'**

 

There were tears in his eyes now - how long were you at it? If you hovered your hips above him, you could see how swollen and angry red both the head of his cock and his own neck had become, his skin screaming as though to say every part of his humongous body needed release before it'd end him. He even felt his own heart jumping into his throat, pounding erratically, like he might  _die_ if he couldn't just  _orgasm,_ and yet somehow it was better than any other woman he'd bent over and torn apart, searching for release.

 

_'Suffer.'_

 

Both of you suffered, though admittedly, you were having much more fun with edging, it was then, and only then, after sinking your teeth into the meatiness of his neck - something nobody had ever done, as they would not be so brave, nor could they reach, and made him  _moan_ unexpectedly that you suddenly took off the material and began bouncing against him aggressively, feeling yourself constrict and begin to cum around Gregor as the giant could hardly move. You had become possessed with the urge to hear more. He felt a noise rip from his throat before he could control it, louder than the other. His spine would not arch, his hips would not raise, his entire body was forcibly wracked with the largest orgasm he had ever felt and his muscles merely constricted and would not move to allow him to do anything except for ride it out hopelessly. He'd even thought he might have pissed himself from just how much he'd cum, in a long, forced continuum that he wouldn't have had the stamina to maintain otherwise. It had been nothing but leg-locking pleasure, so much so that he thought his heart might have even stopped too. He couldn't hear anything, his head actually felt like it was spinning, but not in that horrible way like after being hit in a joust or if he hadn't been given his Milk of the Poppy. This was...

 

 

"Goodnight," you whispered, rolling over him, covered in sweat. As he took up so much space, most of you still rested on him, not that he was a cuddly sort at all, but he didn't seem to mind. 

 

' _Holy what the fuck' -_ he didn't even know sex could  _be_ like that, and he wouldn't have had the patience otherwise. He knew it had gone on for more than an hour, usually, it was minutes.  You weren't comfortable with Ser Gregor in your bed sleeping, and in truth, you got most of yours in ten to twenty minute intervals, your body determined to wake up before the Mountain did, and started asking questions, or Gods forbid, was angry at how you'd taken him, or wanted more. You could do more - you mused - but you actually felt a little worn from how long you'd made use of him. At times, you'd ridden his cock like it didn't even belong to him, trying to push out images of the Red Waste from your mind. Strangely, this blocky sleep was probably the closest thing to real sleep you'd had since you returned to Westeros, and THAT was truly pathetic.

 

When Ser Gregor eventually awoke, you were already gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. She Marches To Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review, pretty purty please?

**KING'S LANDING**

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

' _Why don't you see how much I've grown!'_

 

There were two large figures, one broader than the other, barely noticeable in armour. One was dressed in gold, cloak of white billowing, the other was in armour, dark as soot. At first glance, a few thought it might be Sandor Clegane, and his infamous blackened armour, but the helm was not that of a hound, but of many snakes, curled into each other, and a long, sheer, almost metallic mail down the front that evoked the image of a funerary veil. A head of snakes and a veil for a dowager, it could have only been the woman.

 

Still, Jaime had a hard time believing that it was truly her giving Ser Lyle Crakehall such a run around. She moved with a flexibility that should not have been capable in the armour, taking every advantage of where the armour broke and was held with straps at the joints, with a dexterity he was sure was robbed from the bones of a water-dancer, yet every hit with the sword was inexplicably hard and barbaric in a way he couldn't pinpoint. There was a style, but it certainly wasn't that of a Westerosi knight.

 

"Seven hells, you fight like an Essosi, and with that much Rhoyne you could have stayed there too!" Ser Lyle snapped, when his helm had been removed when she'd managed to land a blow with the flat of a dulled sword.

 

"Ohhh but I have _so_ missed beating Crakehall arse black and blue - if it's a problem, stop fighting like a Westerosi!" she teased him back, gently banging the pommel of her sword, hitting her chestplate in what was more commonly a male chest-beating gesture. The Mountain had only arrived when training had nearly ended, and nobody, not even Jaime, rebuked him for it. He was a man that didn't so often get told off, if at all. In fact, he didn't seem entirely with his own mental faculties for most of whatever was left of training, so Jaime didn't think he was much missed. He probably needed his Poppy dosage boosted or some such thing.

 

"Come on!" she snarled as she beat her chest, and Ser Lyle held a hand up, feeling some maroon on his lip - Elisheva had actually caught his lip with her free gauntlet and had no qualms about punching him there, friendly match or not.

 

Ser Lyle could say he was putting in a lot, but did not land a blow with as much success to bare flesh, bruising her through her armour.

 

"Too fast for you?"

 

"More like you move like a fucking frog and I can narry fuckin' see you half the time," 

 

It was unlike Strongboar to meet defeat like that, but he was open about it, which was stranger. They had a kind of respect for each other that not many could understand. They both had a fine sheen of sweat, and when Elisheva removed her helm, and her hair tumbled forth, some of it near her forehead had stuck - having worked up just as much, perhaps more sweat, than the man. This language of sword-arms and steel meeting each other, parries, ripostes, sweat, blood - everything was the language that she spoke the easiest. The most fluidly. Gregor would be lying if he said he didn't watch. She wasn't quite so like the girls he or his men had took - though he still maintained she could just as easily be turned into one - if raped for long enough - but certainly, she was her own force to be reckoned with.

 

What was it the imp had called her?

 

_Nymeria reborn._

 

The next time he would see her, it was again in a dress, nothing like Westerosi craft he was used to seeing. Sheer in a way that showed off a tall, strong silhouette but respected the court sensibilities very barely, easily crossing even Maergery's daring. She toed a certain line, everything covered - not dressing quite as a whore but something that made any man sweat if staring too long, it was her prevalent Rhoynish looks that perhaps made this seem so acceptable, as though the court was bowing to the strange atmosphere she brought with her.

 

She was strange and intoxicating and upon looking at the Mountain, she had that look of disdain that showed him that she knew exactly what he was.

 

But she had him anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

You took to Myrcella's company, if only to check on your little Minya.

 

"That's ghastly," said Myrcella, wrinkling her nose at your back. "-You should cover it up if you're dining with us,"

 

You frowned a bit, and turned to Minya, who was staring down at her feet shyly, it wasn't often you looked at your own back, and you knew you suffered severe injury in Essos, but Minya had taken care of it as best as you could instruct, then purchasing aloe at Vaes Dothrak, in truth you didn't focus on it until you'd rested in Dragonshelter then had a moment to breathe in Shamyriana. You didn't even think - it wasn't a patch on the devestating pain you'd endured to earn your scarification, and true enough it burned like hell, but your tolerance for pain and heat had been set so high that once Minya had snipped off your leather shirt, you didn't think much of it. It was just a pile of battle injuries, taking a moment and having them treated just seemed so normal that you didn't think to look at the gravity.

 

Minya touched it a lot - along with your scars, and your muscles, with fascination - but you put that to her simply being...her.

 

"Is it that bad?" you scoffed. It only hurt when you flexed your back muscles and laid on it a certain way, and in armour you hardly felt it much. She looked at you strangely, like you had grown another head, before shaking her pretty little head in agitation.

 

"You're burned, blistered and redder than a northman's nose. It looks...wrinkly and strange," said Myrcella bluntly, gesturing to the left of your back.

 

On your right, beautiful scars took up your back with purpose, but to your left - the left was the angry skin that Myrcella groped at the most. Under your tanned, dark skin, the texture changed, like it had become a dark red and raised with tendrils beneath the flesh that dipped and created a smorgasbord of indentations. She thought it a bit hideous to stare at too long, but Minya had seen it enough that it didn't bother her, nor was it anywhere near as bad as it could had been.

 

Minya spoke softly in Low Valyrian.

 

" _It could have been a lot worse. I didn't bring it up - you have a lot of... I thought you knew how bad it was."_

 

You didn't. You felt it, but you didn't see it - not really - until you turned to the floor length mirror and felt a burble in your throat like you could have been sick at what had happened to what was previously smooth flesh. Beautiful purposeful scar work melted into the tail end of what had to have been Drogon's fire.

 

"Apologies, Lady Myrcella," you switched to Valyrian briefly, for Minya's benefit.

 

" _I put most of the pain to the battle the Unsullied had given us. I had barely realised. You said I had caught some fire, I did not think it so severe though,"_

 

Minya said nothing, personally, she thought you'd been in denial, or just didn't care about yourself enough to think about it, truth was, you hadn't the time to stop and think - and nobody else had commented on it, because they hadn't seen it, not even the ones you'd slept with - you had mounted Gregor frontways and the incident with the Warrior Maid was mostly on your back and in the dark.

 

"Didn't it hurt to lay on? Move your shoulder, even? It's - it's  _all over your left side,_ how could you not...?" Myrcella trailed off, stunned.

 

"I'm used to pain, and it did hurt," you shrugged with your right "-but Lord-Father said I don't feel blows like any normal man or woman, and so I was hell to raise." 

Myrcella glanced at the one golden glove you had on, it was strange, metallic and reached almost to the elbow, it had sharp, cat-like nails that were beautiful and seemed as sharp as knives, with elegant and ornate patterns weaved into the metal that surely must have been what you put a majority of your pay into. She wondered why you had but one, until she saw you slice through the stone walls and leave marks as though it had been run against a blade. Lannister gold and craftsmanship - beautiful and terribly deadly. If the nails were that sharp, it made sense you did not have two, the look was daring and strange - like the rest of you.

 

Myrcella refrained from commenting, before catching sight of a long, dark red cloak, it bore the Lannister sigil, but she presented it to you anyway.

 

"You could wear this," - it was a gesture of kindness, respect and honour to be given another House's sigil to adorn, you knew this. As long as you weren't forced to bend the knee, it was actually a compliment, but the reasoning behind it made something in your chest plummet, you'd never been overly concerned with your battle scars, but this just seemed so egregious that you could not help but feel a little insulted, but accepted the cloak graciously.

 

"Your dress is quite pretty, otherwise - just - maybe reconsider your backless attire," she cleared her throat "-and perhaps see the palace maester, they'll be better than anything back in Dorne, or Essos." 

 

You wanted to say Dorne had perfectly good maesters and they'd attended her years, but kept silent. You knew she meant well. This left you with a straight order to see the maester, which personally you thought was a waste of time, there wasn't much they could do that wasn't already done. Still, Myrcella couldn't help but wonder if she had managed to hurt your feelings in a way that reminded her of her deceased brother's insensitivity, but as regret finally hit her, you had long since left.

 

Minya attended her in your stead, doing the true handmaiden duties you should have been taking. It was nothing but a title to you, to cover your true purpose, which was known to the high members of the court. It took being accompanied by a poor and somewhat shaken coal boy - who wasn't used to being noticed at all - that you found the maester's chambers.

 

Knocking thrice, an old man - Pycelle - whom you saw at court prior and mentioned something about the Small Council, opened and greeted you inside after giving you a crude once-over.

 

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Lady Elisheva?" he had a natural sort of hunch to him, and rubbed his hands together through his long sleeves. You didn't answer straight away, instead taking in his dark, muggy workstation. There were a few beds, and a large table filled with an assortment of differently shaped glass bottles, some empty and many filled with strange substances. Wet flower petals covered some surfaces, along with some musty tomes, a few covered in thick layers of dust. In one corner, you saw a large, masculine figure, half covered in a bed sheet on one of the beds, but he seemed to be sleeping, as he did not react to your presence.

 

"I was ordered here," you said, before realising how curt you sounded. "The Lady Myrcella noted I sustained injuries prior to the Dornish coup and would prefer it if I were seen to by the palace maesters. I do not think this is a huge issue and if it were such a large problem, I wouldn't be standing here currently, but far be it for me to shirk an order. I came as I am. Sorry to waste your time. I am certain there are things you'd rather be doing,"

 

Pycelle raised a large, furry eyebrow at you, before silently gesturing to the cleanest part of his workstation.

 

"I don't often see to women that aren't of the royal family," he said "-the childhood maester's tend to do that, but you are far from home, and on order - so I'll do this - you will just have to listen to my instruction and try not to be terribly uncomfortable,"

 

Somehow, you doubted Pycelle really minded that much. If his cock still worked at that age, he certainly wouldn't.

 

"Where is this injury?" he queried.

 

"My back," you cleared your throat, before slowly undoing the cloak and watching Pycelle move to behind you, peering at the gratuitous flesh show that your backless Essosi garb had given him. He let out a small sound which he covered with a hacking cough.

 

Fuck's sake - even the maester was jarred? This was practically his fucking job! You tensed over, and counted to ten in your head - ignoring the poorly smothered reaction.

 

"It's not infected, by some miracle." he said in a strained voice "-To disregard being proper for a moment and being your physician instead, I will need to slide out of your dress a little My Lady," he said awkwardly, making you snort inelegantly. Most men at least brought you a drink before asking for such a thing, but you refrained from commenting, if only so the maester could keep his precious few marbles together. You did it silently, being careful not to cut yourself with what you had affectionately named the Tiger's Hand. The top portion of your dress had been fixed to sit at your waist, where the rest of the soft material still clung to your legs and fanned out to the floor.  You could tell Maester Pycelle was resisting every urge in his body to ask how on Earth you would accrue such a burn, but equally, he was enthralled by seeing actual traditional almost lost Rhoynish markings on the other side of your back. He was staring in fascination for a while. 

 

"May I ask...?"

 

"No you may not,"

 

He was silent at that, and instead began to potter around the room, muttering under his breathe. You stared out silently at the door - mind slowly slipping away to the guilty look on Minya's face - how disgusted Myrcella had been, and then your own - and suddenly, you felt quite ill with it all. You'd nearly jumped out of your skin when the door was opened abruptly.

 

A golden Kingsguard stood, annoyed to be sent on an errand like some common boy, albeit it was to fetch a Lady, and one whom the Queen-Mother appeared to respect that stopped him from being outwardly peeved. He was tall, not broad, and had a small triangular black beard and dark wavy hair. Ser Osfryd Kettleblack stood - unable to pull his eyes away as he saw you sitting upon the Grand Maester's desk, dress down and breasts held aloft by a brassier which was unlike most bustiers he'd ever seen and gave him a terribly delightful view.

 

"The Queen-Mother requests your presence for dinner. I'm to escort you," 

 

Why couldn't it have been the one you at least knew - Strongboar?

 

"I've barely started examining her - " Pycelle began, before Ser Osfryd gave him a scowl that could have chilled hell itself, and Pycelle knew him from word of mouth to be the cruellest of the Kettleblack brothers that served in the Kingsguard, and while he had no reason to fear him as he did men like the Mountain - at least Ser Osfryd respected SOME rules - self preservation ruled out. He gave you an apologetic look - it wasn't like he could overrule Cersei anyway.

 

"And I'll have no more of these goose chases, I had enough of that after being redirected here, finding the Lady Elisheva was diversion enough, any longer and she will run late, " Ser Osfryd was respectful, but the annoyance was there. He must have gone to Myrcella first, only to be pointed here.

 

"I will have something made and sent to your chambers with instruction, you musn't keep her Grace waiting, go with Ser Osfryd," said Pycelle, all but ushering you off of his workstation.

 

You pulled the dress back up over your front, and quickly donned the Lannister cloak, keeping a frontal view to the knight before you were escorted out. To your great surprise, Ser Osfryd had kept an arm out, and expected you to take it. Out of convention and manner, you did - but found yourself terribly confused for a moment. Your head was just heavy - you still shuddered from Pycelle's words, and the view that had greeted you in the mirror with Myrcella - and the stricken look on her face, and Minya's guilt at not telling you. She had rubbed your wounds with what you thought of as a Lhazari treatment, and that you had only been faintly licked by flame. Enough to have the leather shirt cut from your skin so it would heal over better, but not the red, veined, shining vines across one half of your back that you had seen.

 

You touched them through your dress, now knowing what they felt like with your free had discreetly. Now you knew it had felt odd, but no odder than your beautiful, intricate branding - and you had no doubt it would fade like normal scars, but now you'd seen it, and how such a short time ago you'd partaken in Astapor had hit you once more.

 

Ser Osfryd walked silently beside you, your fingers groped his arm tighter where metal did not meet over the joints of his armour. He did his best not to react, in truth, he didn't expect much more than limp wristed formality from a Lady of higher standing than he. Upon a closer inspection, you did not seem nearly so fierce and magma-blooded as you had when facing Ser Lyle, and Ser Osfryd wasn't sure whether to be dismayed by that or not. There was something regal, terrifying and beautiful all at once about seeing you fight, and he knew he wasn't the only one who thought so.

 

"Are you to be my accompaniment to dinner?"

 

Ser Osfryd did his best not to smirk, and failed.

 

"Only if invited my Lady, it would be out of my station to take seat at a table as high as that of royals. They only wanted me to bring you there. Word of your fight against Ser Lyle spread and they wanted to make sure you did not succumb to any injuries you may have sustained. He is a ....large man,"

 

You cleared your throat, unable to bare Ser Osfryd's forced tone.

 

"He's a large twat,"

 

The suddenness of your statement, the way your words sounded with your accent, the harshness that reminded him of the bitter taunts that you had exchanged in the field against Ser Lyle had brought Ser Osfryd out of his moodiness and brought a harsh, cruel laugh from his throat. You meant it in jest - and Ser Osfryd had no doubts that you would say exactly that to Ser Lyle's face had he been standing right there, and so it did not feel quite so...bitchy as perhaps it was. It was playful - though he didn't fully understand the relationship you had, he could tell the familiarity was there.

 

"I shan't disagree with my betters," despite his formal tones, his mind was rather on the flash of chest he had seen moments prior in the Maester's work room.

 

You came to the large doors and Ser Osfryd opened them once you let his arm go. Unfortunately, your mind just wasn't with the highly formal situation at all, and perhaps you suffered a bit for it - being less elegant in your words around vipers such as the Lannisters, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

 

All you could think about, was the sorry state of your back.

 

* * *

 

 

It was not often that one was invited to dine with the royal family, Maergery again, had chosen not to make herself present, and apparently, was going on a tour of the poor houses, trying to reassure that the change of kings was one for the better, while also juggling the image of a mourning wife, who also had to reflect happiness that she was being passed along to the younger boy king. It was a conflicting bunch of things, really, and you didn't envy her position even slightly.

 

Ser Jaime did not attend, he was apparently sent away on duty directly under the command of Tywin for some such purpose, giving Cersei a moment to redirect her attentions as she ached over her lover not being near her. Tommen looked far too small in such a large chair, but there was something endearing about it - and it relaxed you. Ser Osfryd went so far as to pull out your chair until he was dismissed from the proceedings.

 

"Thank you for joining us Lady Elisheva," said Cersei - her tone betrayed nothing. She was painfully unreadable, which was rare - and typically, Tyrion had made some such excuse not to attend, and Cersei easily accepted it.

 

"The pleasure is mine," the response was automatic, even though you had spent far longer on battle fields than surrounded in such finery, your mother had you taught with enough to survive even if Tybera was the sister who far excelled in manners of court and femininity. You reminded yourself not to sprawl in your chair as a man would, as it was terribly comfortable, and you had easily been able to slide into those habits with the horselords.

 

They talked some, rarely asking for your input until the matter of the Small Council - your gut all but froze at the mention.

 

"And Ser Ulwyck Uller had already set from Dorne before the coup. He's believed to be with his allies in the Neck," hm, House Brimsblood had allies in the Neck that were only slightly lesser noble than the Ullers, and were deeply respected - House Clement. Raisers of war horses, outskirts of the North, but true bannermen of House Stark, and seat of the Iron Hall. Maybe you would have to write to your old friend, it had been too long - Alssa may have forget if you kept putting her friendship to one side like that.

 

"I would expect there is a bounty on him in Dorne as we speak, perhaps that will be your next contract once this one expires,"  surprisingly, it was Myrcella who spoke this elegantly. The fine food tasted like ash in your mouth, and Cersei noted the glazed appearance in your grey eyes.

 

Cersei, then, in a complete shift, focused entirely onto you in a way that suddenly was forcing you to get out of your mental slump. Gods, you wished she'd have picked another day to play whatever game she was trying to play, you were too tired to play it. Maybe it showed. It felt like you'd aged ten years in the span of hours since you'd been with Myrcella and seen the extent of your own injuries.

 

"Your family - they're one of the Originals, are they not?"

 

You didn't bother to hide your look of wild-eyed surprise, you didn't expect Talwar's terminology to fall from her mouth, Tommen and Myrcella had expressions of mutual confusion, expertly schooled into ones that weren't - well, the girl's was, Tommen less so. Myrcella should have known better, all things considered with how long she had been in Dorne. It was rare that this term was used outside of the noble circles of Dorne and even then, the entire of preserving that kind of eliteness was looked down upon and so it was so seldom ever heard. House Brimsblood being called one - it was technically true, but not a fact many people considered unless they were contemplating the House's growing military might. It was all the more surprising that Cersei knew of the concept, and to apply it to your house.

 

"Yes, yes they are - why... why do you ask?"

 

"Mother, what're the originals?" Tommen asked bluntly, cutting through the conversation. The King being the King - when he asked for something, answers in particular, he should get them. Cersei glanced to Tommen, happy in a way that she could take a lesson away from Tywin and be able to deliver it to her son herself.

 

"The Originals are a Dornish concept, they do not like to speak of it so publicly, as they pride themselves on better values than ours, if I'm not mistaken," Cersei was blunt, and unforgiving in her tone when she spoke about it all "-though for all intents and purposes, they aren't so different. They have their own elite. You met some of them - Lord Oberyn's circle for one. The old families that fill his circle and the nobility of Dorne - the oldest of settlers from the wars are known as the backbones of Dorne. Those that made it what it is," said Cersei simply "-correct me if I am mistaken, Lady Elisheva,"

 

"You're not," you said slowly, reeling.  You were giving a lesson to the King, it seemed.

 

"The Originals are the Dornish concept of the Greater Families. A lot of us originate from Essos, where the Greater Families exist as reigning nobility. House Brimsblood is a remnant of the Spice Wars," you recalled your lessons from so long ago. Childhood lessons. The King looked with rapt attention, perhaps hoping to impress Tywin with what he'd learn.

 

"We are as old as the Orphans of the Greenblood that now live along the River Rhoyne, your maesters may have spoken of if they ever told you about the growth of Dorne. My family was part of the many that faced off against the dragonlords of Valyria under Prince Garin of Chroyane. Our warriors died en masse and the remaining fled in the ten thousand ship migration after the years of moving from island to island, place to place, we were among the original settlers. You see, my King? The Original settlers. It is...in the name, I suppose. Where the Orphans of the Greenblood mourn the loss of Essos, House Brimsblood adapted to change. Like the others. The difference being, our seat is closer to the river in the deserts, more so than any other - even House Uller, so we kept a mix of our traditions,"

 

"It makes us different from every other Original, and we are seldom considered part of it. But we always have been, my King,"

 

Tommen, from all you said, seemed to latch onto one thing.

 

"You come from  _dragonslayers?"_

 

 _"_ Or Dragonfood, my King. Take your pick, we did lose, after all," you didn't doubt that countless of your own had probably died and few, if any, could have helped take down one of the three hundred dragons of Old Valyria.

 

It struck you now as ironic, that you would be the one out of all the Dornish families to see the return of dragons, and be licked by their flames. Oh, the Gods were cruel in their humour.

 

"And yet, despite being one of the Originals, you have instead decided to honour the contract we've given you, and remain here, even as Dorne is in pieces and would benefit from every available hand, and surely - you must miss your family, yet you are here," Cersei mused "-there was a method to the madness, daughter. I hope I have impressed upon you the dedication of your guard, I know you have expressed some displeasure at having her chaperone,"

 

And Cersei apparently, didn't give too much of a shit if she offended you or made things awkward with Myrcella, so long as Myrcella could understand that everything Cersei did was for her. 

 

"My apologies if this is not to your wishes Lady Myrcella," the nerve of this one, after you saved her from the damn coup - well, it didn't mean she had to like you, but you thought she had been coming around to it - at least. Myrcella had the good grace to look embarrassed, at least. "-But my purpose begins and ends with the protection of you so far as your mother has me contracted to you. Duty is important, but I will do whatever is in my power to remain an unobtrusive presence,"

 

Myrcella looked down at her plate, your words had just made her feel guilty - guilty that she had ever whinged to Cersei about being watched over by you in the first place.

 

"I know," Myrcella replied, her voice soft.

 

The guilt ate at her, she complained to Cersei about how rough and abrupt you were, how you'd pretty much thrown her into the boat during the Dornish coup, but the fact was, you had sacrificed a lot, and were continuing to - and Myrcella was... 

 

' _I'm being so ungrateful, and rude.'_

 

She was being a little bit like Joffrey, now that she thought about it.

 

The rest of dinner was uneventful, save for the fact that Cersei's piercing green eyes kept staring over at you from over her wineglass. In any other situation, you might have taken it a few different ways, but your mind again returned to the red fog of Essos, and mulled over the image you had seen of yourself in the mirror, and Pycelle's gasp - Minya's guilt, Myrcella's disgust. You found yourself rolling the food under your tongue, barely making a dent in your dinner, which was unheard of to those who knew you, as you had a large appetite. Swallowing it, you seemed so disconnected from the taste. It was like you were sat at that table and yet, were not really there.

 

Cersei seemed to notice your vacant stare, and kept you in your place when the dinner had ended.

 

She rose up and took several long strides, looking so beautiful in a deep wine-coloured dress. Her delicate hand landed on your shoulder - making you stiffen all over, jolting you from your reverie. She had you walking beside her, silently through the beauty of the Red Keep.

 

You noticed that with your presence, she dismissed Kingsguard from following her. It was now that you realised you were going to somewhere completely unfamiliar and quite some distance through the Keep and indeed in a separate part of it entirely. The air seemed to become thicker, and more solemn as you both did. 

 

"You seemed distant at dinner,"

 

You cleared your throat.

 

"I am unused to sitting with royalty," 

 

Cersei smirked a little, but it dropped as soon as it came.

 

"Easily forgiven, but it just appears you have a lot on your mind. Enough that I suppose I can forgive your roughness with Myrcella," she said airily "-do you know why I have singled you out tonight? Surely, you noticed at dinner, as distant as you were,"

 

"I did," you said curtly, seeing some small, dark doors come into view now. Cersei stood before them, putting her hand upon the iron rings that would need to be pulled to swing open the doors. You gently took hold of them with your vaster strength, brushing her fingers away.

 

"I wanted you to come here, with me,"

 

* * *

 

 

 

You didn't want this. Cersei Lannister was the last person you wanted to be locked in an intimate moment with, but for some reason, in the absence of Ser Jaime, she had chosen you. Had you known she was going to do this, you would have worn something darker.

 

The pair of you stood over a grand glass case, where the embalmed body of the previous king lay. Joffrey looked the most innocent he had in a long time, Cersei thought - and that was sad. She knew what he was, she had said enough to the Stark girl, but he was still her son, and part of her had died with him. She always knew it could happen, and yet, the blow was still devastating. It still hurt.

 

It was hard to put such tales of cruelty to that face, and Cersei seemed rather relieved with your blankness, your indifference was welcomed - it was why she picked you.

 

"My Lady?" you said, finally breaking the silence.

 

"You were in Essos when he was crowned, weren't you?"

 

You stared at her strangely, before furrowing your brow and casting your mind back. It was a really long time ago to be fair, and much transpired. Sometimes, looking back on an adventurer's week seemed like a month with how much would happen. Where...?

 

Oh, yes, you remembered.

 

"Lord-Father attended the coronation I believe, but my mother was summoned to the Sunspear over a dispute - I remember that, and I left for Volantis after a contract from Prince Varthiyse of the Summer Isles," you said slowly.

 

"You were in Essos for a long time, weren't you? Even when they....killed my son," the venom was unmistakable, you merely nodded along, wondering why you were here.

 

"You missed his entire, short reign," Cersei said, almost deadpan, but there was something soft, inscrutable about her.

 

"...You weren't here to hate him,"

 

You didn't know what to say to that, and instead, stood a step behind her, before gracefully moving to her side, eyes cast over the pale boy, who had the paleness of death settling around under his eyes too. It wouldn't be long until he was no longer fit to display and mourn over in such a way, and would have to be taken care of and put out of sight - however it was that Norther Westerosi chose to.

 

Cersei just wanted someone to stand beside her as she mourned, that did not hate Joffrey. She could find nobody who liked him, but at least, she could find someone who did not hate him, so she picked you. 

 

"I understand that it is hard for many to truly mourn Joffrey, and none will mourn as a mother does, but I would just like...before he is taken from me forever, to be looked upon without hate, if no kindness, or sadness can be found. He deserves that," she said softly, putting her elegant hand atop the glass coffin so that it hovered above Joffrey's face, where she wished for a moment that she could touch him, and find him warm - and only sleeping. Not a cold, clammy cadaver.

 

"Nobody will mourn him as a mother does Your Grace," you said quietly "-that's a special kind of love. Priceless and impossible to fake," a genuine note of pain had wormed its way into your voice, which made her glance at you momentarily.

 

Suddenly, you really didn't want to be there, and felt your heart plummet into your stomach.

 

"You understand, do you?" her tone came across sardonic, and yet, you couldn't fathom the look in her eyes.

 

 _No, no, no, no, no!_ This was not a moment you wanted to share with anyone, but especially not one as icy and cruel as Cersei was known to be.

 

"Yes," your voice suddenly felt thick, and tired, like it didn't want to leave your throat, your eyes now stuck to the Cruel King's eternally slumbering body.

 

"I do,"

 

* * *

 

 

 

Myrcella felt a bit sick with herself, and she would up until she could find a time to stand before you, meek-faced. She owed you her life, and the gravity of your sacrifices despite her attitude had hit her when Cersei had gone out of her way - in an action  _very_ unlike her - to make sure she understood why. She had summoned you to a night meal before you would retire to bed, Minya - though sweet, was limited in her ability to understand a lot of what Myrcella was trying with her, and eventually, would grow tired of teaching. Minya poured some small cups of wine and drifted between you two, watching as you broke bread together.

 

Myrcella apologised, stunning you a little - in truth, the incident at the table was almost forgotten, you were reeling over your moment with Cersei and the gravity of your injuries to even be very much annoyed at her anymore. But she said sorry anyway.

 

"What happened to you in Essos? What'd they do to you?" she was bold, you'd give her that, but there was an undercurrent of concern in her curiosity, her eyes glittering like jewels, so wide and almost innocent, that you couldn't rebuke her for pressing you on private matters. Despite the wine, you felt your throat drying up again, and control starting to ebb away from you. A darkness seemed to pass over your face, and for a moment, Myrcella wondered if she'd done something very, very wrong. 

 

She got the sense she may have, and almost immediately regretted asking.

 

"Everything,"

 

It was a quiet affair after that.

 

You advised Minya to stay with Myrcella, if she would allow it - your reasoning being that you needed some time alone - after seeing your own injuries, and Myrcella made an effort to understand. Minya didn't like sleeping on her own, so she took the small Lhazari's hand and easily agreed to having her. She hardly took up any space.

 

You almost felt bad about the lie. Almost.

 

In times like this, you defaulted to the way you always dealt with things. That's why you were standing at the doors of the armoury, pushing Joss Stillwood to one side easily with your hip and simply staring up at the hulking mass of the Mountain as he returned a loaned shield he decided to try out for a while. In truth, Ser Gregor wasn't really sure how to deal with you. Anger would have been the go-to emotion, except it was muddled with lust and a keening need - and understanding. Dumb he may be, but he understood enough that he wouldn't have allowed for what happened last night to happen unless he had been addled with the strongwine - and Gods had it been worth it! You weren't like any other Westerosi woman he'd ever been with, you were intoxicating, addictive - a slice of chaos and sensuality that couldn't be brought.

 

He stared at you gormlessly, until he felt his face heating up involuntarily as he saw you chewing on your lower lip.

 

"Your squire's going to need to wipe this down after," you said softly, grey eyes glinting in the low light of the armoury. His small beady stare followed down your arms as you sat upon the very edge stone sword rack, knees apart in your sheer dress.

 

"Fuckin' hell, - Stillwood, fuck off for a bit," said Ser Gregor, he wasn't going to make it to the bedroom.

 

Stillwood stared for a moment, until he felt himself being thrown from the room with one of the Mountain's strong arms. 

 

He felt possessive over this. You were his fuck. His best fuck. He wasn't about to share it either. You weren't some common whore, most women were one, and Gods could you act like one, but after that night, he didn't want to imagine any other person inside of you other than him - that joy you gave him was only for him. Nobody else. It was pure greed. Greedy possession. Usually he wouldn't care, Hell, he'd even watched as people took turns, but he had the keen sense that you would snap Stillwood's neck with your bare hands, if not your thighs, if he tried to share you.

 

And that was so very hot to him.

 

If he was a thinker, he'd ask why - why a high noble woman would debase herself so much as to want to fuck him, but all women needed a good fuck now and then, some more than most, and he was delighted to be the one chosen, out of all the pretty boy bastards prancing around in armour or silken finery. You chose him.

 

His hands were already at his buckles, unable to tear his eyes from you as you lifted back the front of your dress so that he could see up your legs and thighs. The sight was enough to make him thank the Gods for Dornish kinkiness. A smoothed, brass, impeccably sculpted and pleasantly ridged long sword hilt was burrowed inside of you from pommel to guard, where your other hand, not guiding the sword, idly rested. You did your best to hold it still - moving it while it was in the rack was tiring, and instead, you began to move along the stone edge, rocking your hips forward and back so that you rode the pommel.  It was enough to cause a vicious stirring in his loins, as though he was forgoing even feeling the beginning twitches of a hard-on and all the blood was simply flowing down at once into a solid and almost immediate-feeling erection.

 

"I have a problem, Gregor," your voice, quiet, yet all encompassing. You ignored his face, eyes hanging to the shape of his cock, pressing angrily against his cottons - with such a strain upon the material and leaving little to nothing to the imagination.

 

"Aye..?" he barely found his voice. He wasn't used to being seduced - it was alien to him - but Gods - it was so hot. A fantasy he couldn't have even come up with.

 

You licked your lower lip. You needed to feel - well, you needed to disconnect from the day, from the moment with Cersei, with Myrcella - and then.... well, after your back, you needed to feel sexy. You didn't plan on being bottom or in a position where he'd see it anyway - he didn't last time, you just needed...  to feel... more than human, more than a scarred mess. A dominator, a predator - someone with power, even though it felt like you were losing yourself to your past more and more each day. Each night. Each dream.

 

"This hilt's not big enough," you purred.

 

If Gregor wasn't entirely sure he'd be going to the fieriest pits of hell, he would be certain that he was in heaven.

 

 

 

 


	6. Tormented

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to Firusha for reviewing :D

 

**TORMENTED | KING'S LANDING**

 

"Cold water and aloe, in that order," you said quietly as Pycelle worked on your back the following morning. True, he sent down some medicine, for whatever good it'd do, it was mostly more aloe, and something to help you sleep - apparently you should have been in  _great pain,_ much of you perplexed him. 

 

"That's good - I didn't think they taught that in rural villages, a maester would have done something similar, perhaps with better tools, resources and application though," said Pycelle, crushing something with a poultice in preparation to smear upon your burned back.   

 

"They don't, she asked a herbalist in the Eastern Markets of Vaes Dothrak," you sighed, Minya had done as good a job as could have been expected from a non-maester, and you had her to thank that it wasn't worse. 

 

"You should be feeling it more than you are," said the man in confused tones "By rights, I'm surprised you're even moving. You should have been in bed, not travelling,"

 

You didn't say anything as he gently told you off, flinching as he brushed some of the scarring around hard abdominal muscles where your skin had once stretched, but was now taught and tight, in peak physical condition.

 

"Is there anything of a more... intimate nature you would like me to look at?" Pycelle gave you a serious look, and he meant well, but you cringed and put your clothes back on, shaking your head at the old man vigorously - no thank you. Nope. He gave you an inscrutable look, but packed you off of his workstation and sent you away.

 

The rest of the day was spent tending to Myrcella with Minya, though she seemed a lot more malleable as of late, she seemed more absorbed in a letter from Trystane - who was alive and well. It seemed the rest of the world was moving on, but only you and Minya were frozen in time. Frozen due to the events in Astapor, the stench of that red city just clinging to you both, though admittedly, Minya seemed to cope better than you'd thought, for you, it added to a long laundry list of problems you already had, that kept you up at night.

 

The days were better spent with Myrcella, but on bitterer nights leading up to the coronation, you were tempted to spend it drinking with the imp, he was welcome company enough - but he was always looking for an angle. Damn these people and their 'Greater Game' - everyone somewhere was doing something to gain knowledge for some reason, that's what you had learned about King's Landing when you were little. If you drank with Tyrion, it'd agitate the other Lannisters, not that you cared overmuch, but you wanted to glide through your stay here - to not raise hairs. 

 

Gods be damned.

 

Gregor was at least pure, dumb company, but he talked in grunts. He demanded pleasure - you gave it sparingly, he hated it - but he loved it. It had to be what stopped him snapping your neck like a bird. The night that followed had been like it too.

 

" _Say - my - name!" you breathed, nails racing down his wide berth of shoulder muscles, eyes focused purely on his thick neck, not staring into the Mountain's eyes. He breathed like a snarling beast, his tremendous body heaving with each belaboured, pleasure-ridden breathe._

 

_He said it. He screamed it, even. With you, he could not predict when he felt his orgasm coming, he never could with you. You made him feel like a boy just discovering himself before he'd become a man grown. Ser Gregor's voice was so loud and tremendous that it shook the spare bedroom of the Keep that you had plundered for space to fuck. You could swear the vibrations of his voice would make the walls shake._

 

_Gregor had touched your back briefly, and while visually he didn't seem to care - far too focused on your other, more interesting parts - he could not help but have his fingers recoil away from the rougher texture of your fire-licked back to the side with the artisinal scarring instead._

 

_You noticed. Gods - you noticed._

 

So now you sat down, and you drank alone, watching Minya sleep softly on your shared bed. It seemed you had a court summons in the morning, and you would come to understand why soon enough. Your relationship with Cersei Lannister was now coming to bite you in the backside.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Small Council would have been an intimidating bunch, but you found yourself staring into the faces of old men and advisers - Cersei's younger beauty breaking the monotony.  You were not a woman who scared easily regardless though, and found yourself reciting exactly what you had told Cersei during your dinner with her the previous night. She did seem rather focused on something else though, speaking for Tommen who remained mute, and honestly, like he was struggling to follow some of the things that were occurring.

 

"You were in Essos while that errant Targaryen took Meereen, Lord Varys tells me," said Cersei "-I want to know what you can tell us about her."

 

Varys?

 

Your eyes darted to the Master of Whispers, and suddenly, you realised you had no idea just how much Cersei knew about you, and a sharp sense of discomfort rose in your gut on instinct, but you didn't have a dog in this fight - in who would rule - and you certainly didn't like the Silver Witch much, if at all, so you wouldn't have to lie, there was no truth to abstain from telling this time. A rarity.

 

"She has taken Meereen, she has Yunkai, She had taken Astapor, but lost that. I could not say whether she is going to try to retake it or what will occur on that front. She struggles to maintain the cities held by the Greater Families but there is fond speak of her in some of the Free Cities like Braavos according to my brother who had been there many years. She creates power struggles wherever she goes, and upon taking the reins herself, struggles to retain that control. Meereen was in chaos, and she makes poor choices, but she has gathered a good army of Unsullied---"

 

Cersei stopped you, her green eyes hard and impatient.

 

"I want to know about this talk of dragons."

 

You glanced at Varys, the strange, bald eunuch with narrowed eyes which remained unreadable and then to Cersei.

 

"She has three. They are large, and they are real,"

 

Varys smiled, and the Small Council erupted into noises of disbelief - which annoyed you the most.

 

"Large?" Varys pressed.

 

You snapped, what did he want from you?

 

"Yes. I saw it." 

 

Understanding seemed to dawn in Pycelle's eyes and he silently grabbed his beard in thought. Your words seemed to bring silence, which forced you to fill the air and continue as Cersei tilted her head and look strangely at you. She didn't know this? The fact you couldn't tell  how much they knew about you was now really starting to get under your skin.

 

"I saw one of them. A large black one. The one they say is called Drogon. It filled the sky and blocked out the sun." 

 

"Where did you see this? No reports said you were in Meereen," said Cersei sharply.

 

Reports...?

 

Your eyes landed on Varys briefly.

 

"It is hard to get a good read on me Your Grace, I move a lot. I was in Vaes Dothrak for a while and then I rode with a khalasar for an indeterminate amount of time, we sacked Astapor when the Targ bitch had taken away the Unsullied that guard the walls for her army. We plundered through Lhazar and didn't stop until we'd taken the Red City, we murdered her ruling council in their great pyramid and destroyed what was left of those living in the lands after she had killed many of the Masters. It went on for three days and three nights until she sent a small legion of Unsullied to reclaim it,"

 

You sucked in a short breathe.

 

"And she sent her big, black, scaled beast."

 

There was a wave of discomfort before Varys, mostly in curiosity, pressed you.

 

" _You_ were part of the Rape of Astapor?"

 

So that's what they were calling it. You stood abruptly, sending the wooden chair backward in a loud screech before undoing the Lannister cloak that Myrcella had so graciously given you - Cersei noticed - and watched as you turned around and brandished the large expanse of your muscled back, parading the one side of beautiful scarification, and the other of harsh burns that took up the other side of your back completely in red tendrils, in a way no small campfire could possibly do unless you had been stuck in a burning building.

 

"I felt its fire on my back as it burned through our khalasar, killed one of my Lhazari handmaidens and a bloodrider who I regarded as a friend," your voice had become cold, and impossibly severe, effectively silencing the disbelief.

 

"Then she must never cross the Narrow Sea," said Cersei authoritatively, ending the awkward moment with her voice as you donned the cloak and retook your seat. "-though if she remains as troubled as you say with her control of Meereen, then we must make sure it stays that way rather than try to even war with such ghastly things if we can resist it. Thank you Lady Elisheva, you have been most....useful to us. You may leave,"

 

With that, you left as quickly as you possibly could, a troubled stormy gaze settling on your face.

 

* * *

 

 

There was something wrong with her, from Lyle Crakehall's point of view. Something wrong, that he couldn't make sense of. She'd changed of course, like he had - a lifetime had passed between him and Elisheva. He had also heard the rumour that she was throwing herself at the Mountain - a decision that he could not reconcile with, and he certainly wasn't about the ask the man. 

 

  
It came down like a ton of bricks – and at first, Lyle didn’t really understand the reason for him being there. The announcements had gone out already but Elisheva had a habit of avoiding mail from her family when she was doing something she couldn’t justify, that much he knew. What Lyle did not expect, was an expedited delivery of a letter that wasn’t even sent by raven, but by foot-courier, because of how quickly Lord Roland wanted it delivered. The whole thing had been contingent on Elisheva not receiving or paying attention to her messages, and the fact she hadn’t and that Lord Roland’s warning meant anything at all at this point, showed that the Crakehalls knew her far too well than perhaps they should. Tybera had sent a raven to Alssa Clement regarding news of her birthing her twins, purely because Elisheva had always acted queerly around her since returning home, so the letter waiting for her about the news was wrapped in two seals. One Dornish seal for House Brimsblood, and House Clements.

 

  
As if anything could soften the blow. Even the letter Lyle had received skirted around everything, while Alssa and Tybera couldn’t account for her erratic behaviour regarding her pregnancy, the fact that Lyle’s father could frankly baffled him.

 

  
He expected her to be happy about it, or at least sad that she had missed the birth in favour of attending the King’s coronation. He watched as her face lit up and fell at almost the same time, like watching her blink away one emotion for another.

 

  
“Is this a joke…?” was all she said. Lyle’s letter had told him to be there when she inevitably found out, or tell her himself, just to be there. He could swear, even though Elisheva never married into the family, she got so close to Lord Roland that it honestly felt like she had.

 

  
“I wouldn’t...joke about this? Why would I?” said Lyle, truly confused. Elisheva aggressively shoved his letter about it from his hands, the sharpened claws of the ornate golden glove she wore had nearly cut through some of his sleeve where his armour broke. She stood at him – cycling through disbelief, happiness, then this strange…was that anger? Lyle couldn’t make sense of it, but it was quickly wiped away.

 

  
“Aren’t you happy? It went okay, both of them are healthy and your sister’s doing well,” he watched as her eyes seemed to dim, and a strange blank expression washed over her face.

 

  
“Oh,” Was that all she could really say? Damn, Lyle was almost glad that she wasn’t present for the birth, what a lacklustre response. Then something truly bewildering started to happen, Elisheva began licking her lips, silently tasting the wet, salty tear that had hit it, the rest starting to come down slowly, thickly, not instantaneously, but once they started, it felt like they were rushing so fast that she might have burst into tears on the spot. Both joining at the bottom of her chin and splashing down her chest heavily.

 

  
“I’m so happy I can hardly hold it in,” she said, giving him a smile that reminded him more of a cracked mirror that an earnest smile. Her tone was angry though, the kind she’d use when she wanted to start a fight, he truly didn’t know what to make of it. “Don’t look at me like that, I told you, I’m happy about it! Can’t you see how happy I am?” she snarled. Lyle reached out for her shoulder, only to have his hand violently slapped away with the weaponised glove, causing him to hiss in pain.

 

  
“Fuck! Don’t hurt the messenger, what is your issue with this? Why are you so angry?”

 

Then, her expression went from blank to angry – like she was insulted that he would call her out on her true emotions for being anything but thrilled.

 

“What do you mean angry? I just told you I’m not fucking angry!” suddenly choking up on the words, and deciding to use her strength to push Lyle Crakehall’s wide, tremendous body with all of her might, just like she had as kids, to get him out of her way. “Just get out of my way, I have a congratulations letter to send,” her tone, now strangely bitter. If her week hadn't been bad enough, Ser Lyle had managed to make it worse, and truly, he didn't intend to.

 

 

"Lady Elisheva..." he said with a frown, holding his injured hand - he didn't think he'd ever seen her cry in his life, he could wager very few people had - it was why he was so disturbed. Elisheva felt like someone had scooped out all of her insides and left her empty where her vicarious happiness should have been and it showed, truly. "I know we aren't close like you are with my father and Merlon, but we were betrothed once, I still care about you,"

 

 

"Horseshit," Elisheva snapped "- too much has changed, there's decades between us, we don't know anything about each other's lives and if you ever wanted to reach me when I was gone you could have sent word to my family and they would have forwarded it to me. I'd have seen it eventually," she aggressively wiped at her eyes "-Don't stand there and make like you give a damn, you're only here because daddy Roland sent you. You wouldn't give two shits and a fuck otherwise so spare me and don't pretend,"

 

 

 Lyle winced, because he thought himself her friend and truly thought they could get closer and slowly fill in the distance between them caused by all those years of living separate lives and because - damn, it was true. He'd gone whole years without thinking about her - what right did he have inserting himself into her life as a shoulder to cry on? Still, it was what his father had asked of him, and hells, at least he could say he tried. 

 

"Nothing to say? Yeah....that's what I thought," she hissed bitterly, shouldering past him.

 

 

Every sense Lyle had, told him to go after her, but his conscience told him to feel guilt for somehow being responsible for her tears, and reminded him that he had no real right to be a shoulder to cry on, that true - he had gone for years without caring, and yes, part of it was absolute cowardice, because he had no idea how to deal with a woman's tears - but a warrior's? He could not fathom how. So he simply did not.

 

Your company was missed for much of the day.

 

* * *

 

 

 

You wanted to touch her, you wanted to touch Minya that night because you wanted some damn control. She had let you before, but you could see the confusion in her eyes, and her reluctantly acquiescing. She laid in the bed, smaller than you, her arms splayed out and exposing her small, modest chest. There was a look in your eye and it scared her, she wondered if she said no if you would get angry, it seemed like you were nothing but angry today.

 

"Ohh I'm - I'm not sure if I wa--want to..." she hiccuped and squeaked as you had one of her nipples in your mouth, gently teasing her with your tongue. A deep warmth plunged through Minya's gut and curled around her groin, igniting a kindling of arousal inside of her. "Nn...nevermind..." she said, breathing out suddenly.

 

The hint of apprehension in her tone shattered your self-centered, emotional bubble, making you jerk up in the bed and hover over her hips, scowling down at her. Minya blushed up shyly, looking at you through her lashes.

 

"You can... you can have me, you know if you - if you want, I mean, I want it," 

 

Gods, were you going to force it if you hadn't gotten her aroused....? Several unwelcome images flashed in your mind - Ser Urmen Warleggan, Vidar zo Yaziq, Jargo - and all the men who had ever forced themselves or tried to upon you - making you swing yourself off of the bed resolutely.

 

"Milady, I said it's okay," said Minya in confusion, you didn't reply, silently pulling a sleeping robe around your naked body. When you got the door and heard Minya shuffling on the bed, like she may get up, you suddenly snapped, not turning your head around.

 

"Stay here," before you closed the door behind you, not looking back at the crestfallen handmaiden. This left you, and the vastness of the Maidenvault - complete silence, save for the pattering of night servants, who were readying things for the morning. It seemed that the palace didn't truly sleep, but it was still eerily quiet, coming from a family with so many siblings, it was always noisy, even when you travelled - with the exception of the vast desert, it was always noisy.

 

Empty, like how you felt on the inside. 

 

Your legs seemed to carry you automatically to the barracks, and there was one guard stationed there, on a night shift, sporting a shield and looking tired. 

 

"Why're you out of bed my lady?" he said, his voice low, conscious of the quiet atmosphere in the Keep. It snapped you out of the daze which had brought you there, and you simply, crossed both arms under your chest and spoke in a blank tone, not looking up at him.

 

"Night visit. Do you need to check me for weapons? I don't wish anyone ill in there," your murmured, not reacting as you felt the guards large hands patting you gratuitously as you gave him a reason for touching you - which truthfully he hadn't thought of - you shut your eyes as he started to squeeze you briefly when you mentioned a night visit.

 

"Whose so lucky?" he said in a low, slightly headier tone.

 

"Gregor," he stopped touching you almost instantly, almost visibly recoiling. So - the rumours were true, and it dawned in his eyes - and though he didn't regret getting a fistful of tight, thick, ass - if the Mountain had chosen to get possessive, it wouldn't bode well for him.

 

The barracks were dark, and there were a symphony of snores - and it smelled. Bad. A sweaty man didn't generally smell good but a whole host of them smelled even worse. You saw a Kettleblack sleeping with his jaw open wide like a gormless animal, drool travelling down his cheeks to his pillow.

 

Gregor was easy to find, none too far from Ser Osfryd. He was sleeping - deeply, and did not take kindly to the rough wake up you gave him, by putting your hand over his mouth to stop him from making noise and prodding him awake, moving to sit on his stomach. His tired, beady grey eyes opened to stare at you blearily in a mix of confusion, anger and abject sleepiness.

 

You put the hand you'd prodded him with to your lips in a "hush" gesture before moving your hand off of his lips and gesturing to the sleeping knights around them. Your hair was loose, and cascading down your shoulders to form a curtain around his face almost.

 

"Wake up," you whispered, as his heavy eyes fell shut

 

" _Wake. Up!"_ a more meaningful hiss being made, he gasped sharply - loud enough to almost wake someone up as something warm and slick traced down his crotch. In his sleepiness, even with his eyes shut, he could feel where on his cock a smooth trail had been licked down. It was enough to make his enormous body shudder in the bed. That woke him up like a dash of water to the face, his hand almost flying into your hair but you had hitched yourself back up his body, buttoning his cottons from the front where you felt his cock beginning to twitch and pulse.

 

 _"Outside."_ you whispered.

 

There was something about the look in your eyes - though they were grey, the ferocity reminded him furious, red rubies, glistening in the darkness like orbs - it was like the look you had given him the first night you had him but somehow...worse - amplified. It was like he was under the most intense, concentrated light, judging him and demanding of him his body. He felt your hands over his naked chest - as he'd been sleeping without a shirt, allowing for you to roam them over his pectorals as he shifted beneath you.

 

Gregor was not a delicate man, but never had you heard of someone of such gargantuan nature being able to move so quietly. He rose up, almost carrying you in the process - all of the blood seeming to go to his dick and directing his massive form out of the room. The knight outside did not say anything as the door groaned open and you two emerged, but flinched as Gregor addressed him harshly.

 

_**"In."** _

 

The knight had a look of disbelief under his helm, but only for a second, before turning and going inside the barracks.

 

Gregor did not understand the why - why you would take him so randomly, but this seemed different - he had every belief that you would mount him right there in the barracks and demand his silence and torture him that way, thrilled by the idea of trying not to wake anybody up. It was a hot sort of idea, really - so this...confused him. Your nails had raked down his body and pulled demandingly at his cottons once, before reaching around the robe you had on and letting it drop to your ankles, exposing your body to the cold of the empty corridor.

 

Yes. Right here.

 

He took you in from the front - you were better that way, marvelling at the fact you had walked down practically naked just to see him, like the neediest courtesan.

 

_"Make it hurt,"_

 

Now that surprised Gregor - usually you were the one hurting him, and it only just struck him now that you were giving him control. He couldn't rip his own cotton's off faster, his greedy, large hand suddenly and unromantically hitching up between your muscular thighs and groping for your cunt, closing his eyes to feel how aroused you were. Your whole body was naked - it had been only covered with a thin robe of satin that you did not wear regularly. You had taken off your laced sleepwear when you thought you would be with Minya, and so before Gregor you were utterly naked.

 

You didn't seem that wet, though he did catch some hint of it on his hand, it would be not near enough to accommodate his body - and it wasn't. He watched as you gnashed your teeth but did not yelp - it was a familiar pain, being slammed into like that.

 

Suddenly, Gregor became quite sure that the first thought he had - that any man could break you if they took turns long enough, felt like a falsehood.

 

But did he want to...?

 

If he did, he might not see you again, because women - women did not like how he treated them, his last two wives were evident of that, but then you'd said it - in a tone that he did not recognise, like you had been possessed by every bad part of your broken spirit and were speaking directly to his worst desires.

 

" _Break - me,"_

 

Had his thoughts been sober and not tired, riddled with horniness, he'd have questioned it - maybe. But he didn't. 

 

There was no preparation, nothing - well, unless spitting in his hands counted, as he genuinely didn't want to send you to the Maester's office with what he planned to do, but being given the go-ahead to finally fuck you - not be fucked BY you - and then even more, to try to break you - he experienced a joy like when he first was given a sharp sword as a youth, finally given power to wield that didn't just come from his own two hands, he was practically intoxicated by it.

 

You breathed like you had been plunged underwater and hadn't had air for a lifetime, the moment Gregor filled you was the moment you felt like every one of your insides wanted to come up out of your mouth as he buried himself past your pussy. 

 **IT HURT. IT HURT,** it hurt, _ **it hurt!**_

Your legs started to shake erratically, and a dry pain washed over you.  - Good - he was hurting you,  _really, really hurting you -_ over your pain, you were not sure if you had called him a good boy outloud or in your head, but the pain was so overwhelming that the scream died on your lips and turned into a hoarse crackle as you gasped. He was going to - fuck - like Vidar -  like - Oh.... 

 

Gods, he'd gone for your ass the moment you asked to be broken.

 

Your thoughts became disjointed mess, breaking from both pain, a modicum of pleasure and the mania it began to feed. The pain was refreshing, forcing you to feel something instead of the gaping emptiness that had intensified and become too much to bare since Lyle had spoken to you. Gregor was lost in the sensation of the dry tightness, wishing briefly that he had gone into your pussy first to coat him down in your fluids until he could pull out and break into your round, muscled ass instead - but he knew if he did that, that he simply wouldn't last. Without you edging him, Gregor knew he was an absolute slave to the way your pussy made him feel and his cock could only bare so much - so he went straight for the money.

 

He watched as your eyes rolled back - you were certain you blacked out briefly, but he didn't stop, he kept grunting and thrusting against you, enjoying the suffocation around his member far more than he actually should. When your eyes had opened midway through the act, he saw that tears had started to fall from your eyes, but there was no emotion to your features, the muted agony replaced by that cracked-mirror smile. It was positively maniacal in this light. If Gregor hadn't been balls deep he would have thought it disturbing - well, part of him still did, but he was unbothered by it.

 

He just wanted  _more,_ and found himself angry that he was emptying himself inside of you, causing cum to roll down your ass and the backs of your legs. You couldn't stand, and there was an absent but maniacal look still present - you were certain that between black outs, you had came, feeling your inner thighs be far too wet for it not to have been. Glancing down, you saw your hand there, fingers around your entrance after Gregor had finished, bringing yourself off. You were raw - in agony, tears down both cheeks, you shouldn't have been grinning and masturbating, but you were. One hand supported yourself against Gregor, the rest of you had now leaned against the wall as he pulled out.

 

"Good enough," you panted, feeling a much lazier, less fanfare series of tingles from the idle abuse of your clitoris from the outside. If there had been more preparation, you might have even enjoyed what had just occurred. 

 

Gregor was silent in pulling up his cottons and buttoning them. He didn't really know what to say now.  He glanced at you, and saw that your body was now covered in a fine sheen of sweat, shaking from the pain and that you left hand-shaped prints of sweat against the part of the floor you touched when picking up the fallen robe to cover yourself. 

 

"Goodnight Gregor,"

 

No. Not again - he grabbed you before you could leave, raising you up despite your own decently impressive height, and in a move that you did not for a second see coming, shoved his tongue down your throat.

 

It took every inch of will not to bite.

 

 _'Mmfngn-- no!'_ out of everything that happened, this was what your mind objected to. He didn't seem to move too much but he stole your breathe out from your already shattered lungs, your whole body just succumbing to what was happening, mind reeling. When he let you go, he had set you down with more delicacy than you had known him to have. He watched your swollen lips tremble slightly, and searched for some kind of pain and resentment in your features. The maniacal expression had gone, and the empty one returned. Gregor was not sure if he let go, whether you would stand, most women couldn't.

 

But you weren't most women.

 

He was very slow with moving his massive hands from your sides, but you stood still with inverted knees. You were pale, he noticed, and worn out - expected, really, but much to mutual relief, he hadn't manage to rupture anything. He didn't think about it at the time, but if you had ended up going to the Maester for something like this, he might have actually gotten some sharp rebuke from the Lannisters. He was still trying to figure out what your relationship was like in true standing with them, but so were you.

 

" _Wh..aht was that for...?_ " you managed to breathe out, blinking tears of pain out of your eyes as your vision focused.

 

He said nothing, typically, just watching you shakily tie the robe around yourself and lean against the wall, ignoring your body hissing in pain.

 

"Felt like it," Gregor grunted, turning for the door - before adding "Night," - as an afterthought. What was that supposed to mean? "Felt like it?" - Did you open a door that couldn't be closed? 

 

When the door to the armour slowly creaked shut, you were left catching your breathe in the vast corridor, before slowly gimping back down to the Maidenvault. It would be a long walk - you realised, with a grimace, and in truth, your backside hurt with every rub of your thighs and forward stride. All that filled the corridor was the sound of your slippers scraping against the floor from where you dragged your feet.

 

If your septa could see you now, she would be calling this the walk of shame, or more accurately - the stagger.

 

You closed your eyes, feeling along the wall - and wondering how long this walk was going to be.

 

"My Lady?" a voice came at you, thick and gravelly. You with your head tilted downwards and hair messily falling down your robe, caught the armoured feet first, which were a dark colour, not unlike your own Coat of Plates. You were about to ignore it and keep walking, only to feel your left knee give for a moment - and Gods, you didn't want to fall on your ass, not when it was this sensitive.

 

"Shit!" you snarled, barely catching yourself, only to feel a large set of arms, only ever so slightly smaller than Gregor's had been, holding you up until you retook your fitting.

 

At first, your hand caught a banner, so it was probably good that the knight was there, but still, you shouldn't have been out this late in the palace, not when security was always on alert now. A deep gasp had left you from the base of your gut in surprise, before you let out a small noise of pain.

 

"You need a maester?" it seemed your physical state took precedent over asking what you were doing, you recognised the voice now after focusing a little - it was the puppy, wasn't it? You groaned as much, and heard him grunt back in response.

 

"It's fine," you said shortly, "I need to return to my quarters," and though you loathed to ask - Gregor did a number on you, because you had asked him to. "-May I have your assistance?" 

 

Instead of say 'yes' - Sandor simply hooked his large arm into yours, as was proper, and did most of the walking for you, ready to catch you if your feet would slip under your weaker legs.

 

"What're you doing out here?"  he caught sight of your bloodshot eyes, pale pallor and loose state of dress, it was worrying - and highly unlikely you were up to anything nefarious, as there were no weapons on your person for once, but he was undeniably curious. Whilst sleeping around wasn't exactly tasteful, it wasn't illegal, so you almost told him, but instead, remained silent for a while.

 

"Are you on a night watch?" you asked.

 

"Aye, but answer my question," replied the man smoothly.

 

You closed your eyes with a wince, and didn't feel the sense of shame that perhaps you should.

 

"Night visit,"

 

Silence. The urge to ask 'who' - was in the air, but at the same time, Sandor didn't need to ask. There was rumours everywhere in King's Landing and one could hardly pass gas without someone else knowing, even someone as disconnected as he had heard them, yet strangely there was an absence of noticeable disgust. Maybe he thought it, but he didnt show it. Your thoughts about him perhaps knowing whom you were referring to was confirmed when he opened the door to your quarters, where Minya had worried herself to sleep, falling asleep on a chair near the bed, closer to the door to wait for you.

 

Sandor cleared his throat as quietly as he could, slowly shutting the door as you gripped the wall and made your way back to your bed.

 

"You should know, my Lady."

 

You looked at him blearily.

 

"Gregor has broken every toy he's ever owned,"

 

And with that callous warning statement, he shut the door. Minya woke up from the noise of it shutting and rubbed her eyes. When she caught sight of you, she immediately bound over, with a bunch of apologies that she did not need to give, that you did not deserve, spilling into your robe as she buried her face against your stomach and your breasts rested atop the short handmaiden's head. You did not feel the usual spike of endearance towards her, there was nothing. Nothing all over again.

 

"We don't have to talk about it," you said, referencing your moment of intimacy with her, where she had been unsure, but she kept babbling regardless.

 

"I just want to make you happy, you're all I have in the whole world and you brought me to this country, into your family, and kept me safe - but you're sad. You're sad all the time and I don't know how to fix it. You were happy when the Spider lady was on the boat with us, pleasuring you," Minya cried out quietly "-and I thought if I did that, you would be happy again,"

 

That hit you like a bolt out the blue, bringing you out of your selfish empty hole for a moment to listen to the small Lhazareen.

 

"You don't have to do that," you said, feeling numb all over. "You don't have to try to be Iraashi, she was a spot on the map. A moment in time. Nothing more," 

 

You couldn't say that Iraashi made you happy because in truth, she didn't, she made you feel human, but how could you explain how far away you felt to one so pure as Minya, who still managed to think the world of you? It was an almost impossible task. You couldn't say Minya had made you happy either, because while she pleased you in moments, and truly you adored her, it had been a long, long time since you had been happy, and sometimes, you wondered if you'd ever be happy again.

 

"Where did you go? I thought I really messed up -  you've never gotten angry at me before.. and I..." Minya blubbered. When you told her what you had done, her eyes - they had gone so wide, not judgemental, just worried and shocked, and when she had asked you why, had you not ran out of tears, you might have cracked again.

 

"My sister had her babies," you croaked.

 

Minya did not understand your sadness or your reasoning, you could tell. But she held you anyway. The Mountain did not strike Minya as a man who would be of great comfort, or of why it would upset you so deeply - you should be happy! - she did not understand the vast feeling of emptiness it had given you, and that at least with Ser Gregor - the pain, and the anxiousness, and the worry - all of the things associated with seducing him, were the only thing that seemed to fill it. You'd rather feel that than nothing.  

 

So no, you could not explain yourself. Not at all.

 

 


End file.
